The Little Lady of Lagunitas: A Franco-Californian Romance

by Richard Savage

CHAPTER VIII. — JOAQUIN, THE MOUNTAIN ROBBER.—THE DON'S PERIL.

The leaders of the San Joaquin meet at the office of Counsellor Maxime Valois. He is the rising political chief. While multitudes yet delve for gold, Valois wisely heads those who see that the miners are merely nomadic. They are all adventurers. The great men of the coast will be those who control its broad lands, and create ways of communication. The men who develop manufactures, start commercial enterprises, and the farmers, will develop resources of this virgin State. The thousand vocations of civilization are building up a solid fabric for future generations.

True, the poet, the story-writer, and the careless stranger will be fascinated by the heroes of camp and glen. High-booted, red-shirted, revolver-carrying, bearded argonauts are they, braving all hardships, enjoying sudden wealth, and leading romantic lives. Stories of camp and cabin, with brief Monte-Cristo appearances at San Francisco, are the popular rage. These rough heroes are led captive, even as Samson was betrayed by Delilah. The discovery of quartz mining leads Valois to believe that an American science of geologic mining will be a great help in the future. Years of failure and effort, great experience, with associated capital, will be needed for exploring the deep quartz veins. Their mysterious origin baffles the scientist.

Long after the individual argonauts have laid their weary brows upon the drifted pine needles in the deep eternal sleep of Death, the problem will be solved. When their lonely graves are landmarks of the Sierras; when the ephemeral tent towns have been folded up forever, the broad lands of California will support great communities. To them, these early days will be as unreal as the misty wreaths clinging around the Sierras.

The romance of the Gilded Age! Each decade throws a deeper mantle of the shadowy past over the struggles of fresh hearts that failed in the mad race for gold.

Their lives become, day by day, a mere disjointed mass of paltry incident. Their careers point no moral, even if they adorn the future tale. The type of the argonaut itself begins to disappear. Those who returned freighted with gold to their foreign homes are rich, and leading other lives far away. Those who diverted their new-found wealth into industries are prospering. They will leave histories and stable monuments of their life-work. But the great band of placer hunters have wandered into the distant territories of the great West. They leave their bones scattered, under the Indian's attack, or die on distant quests. They drop into the stream of unknown fate. No moral purpose attended their arrival. No high aim directed their labors. As silently as they came, the rope of sand has sifted away. Their influence is absolutely nothing upon the future social life of California. Even later Californian society owes nothing of its feverish strangeness to these gold hunters. They toiled in their historic quest. The prosaic results of the polyglot settlement of the new State are not of their direction.

The bizarre Western character is due to an admixture of ill-assorted elements. Not to gold itself or the lust of gold. The personal history of the gold hunters is almost valueless. No hallowed memory clings to the miner's grave. No blessing such as hovers over the soldier, dead under his country's banner.

The early miners fell by the way, while grubbing for gold. Their ends were only selfish gain. Their gold was a minister of vilest pleasures. A fool's title to temporary importance.

Among them were many of high powers and great capacity, worthy of deeds of derring-do, yet it cannot be denied that the narrowest impulses of human action drove the impetuous explorers over the high Sierras. Gain alone buried them in the dim ca¤ons of the Yuba and American. The sturdy citizens pouring in with their families, seeking homes; those who laid the enduring foundations of the social fabric, the laws and enterprises of necessity, pith, and moment, are the real fathers of the great Golden State. In the rapidity of settlement, all the manifold labors of civilization began together. Laus Deo! There were hands, brains, and hearts for those trying hours of the sudden acquisition of this royal domain.

The thoughtful scholar Nevins, throwing open the first public school-room to a little nursery-like brood, planted the seeds of a future harvest, far richer than the output of the river treasuries.

A farmer's wife toiling over the long plains, caring for two beehives, mindful of the future, introduced a future wealth, kinder in prophetic thought, than he who blindly stumbled on a bonanza.

Humble farmer, honest head of family, intelligent teacher, useful artisan, wise doctor, and skilled mechanic, these were the real fathers of the State.

The sailor, the mechanic, and the good pioneer women, these are the heroes and heroines gratefully remembered now. They regulated civilization; they stood together against the gold-maddened floating miners; they fought the vicious camp-followers.

Maxime Valois, learned in the civil law of his native State, speaking French and Spanish, soon plunged in the vexatious land litigation of his generation. Mere casual occupancy gave little color of title to the commoner Mexicans. Now, the great grant owners are, one by one, cited into court to prove their holdings; many are forced in by aggressive squatters.

While gold still pours out of the mines, and the young State feels a throbbing life everywhere, the native Californians are sorely pressed between the land-getting and the mining classes. Wild herds no longer furnish them free meat at will. The mustangs are driven away from their haunts. Growing poverty cuts off ranch hospitality. Without courage to labor, the poorer Mexicans, contemptuously called Greasers, go to the extremes of passive suffering. All the occupations of the vaqueros are gone. These desperate Greasers are driven to horse-stealing and robbery.

Expert with lasso, knife, and revolver, they know every trail. These bandits mount themselves at will from herds of the new-comers.

The regions of the north, the forests of the Sierras, and the lonely southern valleys give them safe lurking-places. Wherever they reach a ranch of their people, they are protected; the pursuers are baffled; they are misled by the sly hangers-on of these gloomy adobe houses.

In San Joaquin, the brigands hold high carnival; they sally out on wild rides across the upper Sacramento. The mining regions are in terror. Herds of stolen horses are driven by the Livermore Pass to the south. Cattle and sheep are divided; they are used for food. Sometimes the brands are skilfully altered by addition or counterfeit.

Suspicious Mexicans are soon in danger. Short shrift is given to the horse-thief. The State authorities are powerless in face of the duplicity of these native residents. They feel they have been enslaved by the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. The roads became unsafe. Travellers are subject to a sudden volley from ambush. The fatal lasso is one trick; the midnight stab, when lodging in Mexican wayside houses, is another. There is no longer safety save in the large towns. From San Diego to Shasta, a chain of criminals leaves a record of bloody deeds. There are broader reasons than the mere friction of races. The native Californians are rudely treated in the new courts; their personal rights are invaded; their homes are not secure; their women are made the prey of infamous attack.

A deadly feud now rises between the Mexicans and Americans. These brutal encroachments of the new governing race bring reprisals in chance duels and secret crimes. This organized robbery is a return blow. The Americans are forced to travel in posses. They reinforce their sheriffs. They establish armed messengers. In town and county they execute suspects by a lively applied Lynch law.

All that is needed to create a general race-war is a determined leader.

As months roll on, the record of violence becomes alarming. Small stations are attacked, many desperate fights occur. Dead men are weltering in their blood, on all the trails. A scheming intelligence seems now to direct the bandits. Pity was never in the Mexican heart. But now unarmed men are butchered while praying for mercy. Their bodies are wantonly gashed. Droves of poor, plodding, unarmed Chinese miners are found lying dead like sheep in rows. Every trail and road is unsafe. Different bodies of robbers, from five to twenty, operate at the same time. There is no telegraph here as yet, to warn the helpless settlers. The following of treasure trains shows that spies are aiding the bandits.

The leading men of the new State find this scourge unbearable. Lands are untenanted, cattle and herds are a prey to the robbers. Private and public reward has failed to check this evil. Sheriff's posses and occasional lynching parties shoot and hang. Still the evil grows. It is an insult to American courage. As 1852 is ushered in, there are nearly two hundred and fifty thousand dwellers in the new State. Still the reign of terror continues. One curious fact appears. All of the bandits chased south toward Monterey or Los Angeles are finally driven to bay, killed, or scattered as fugitives. In the middle regions, the organization of the Mexican murderers seems to be aided by powerful friends. They evidently furnish news, supplies, and give concealment to these modern butchers. They are only equalled by the old cutthroats of the Spanish main.

A meeting of citizens is called at Stockton. It is privately held, for fear of betrayal. Maxime Valois is, as usual, in the van. His knowledge of the country and his renown as a member of Fremont's party fit him to lead. A secret organization is perfected. The sheriff of the county is made head of it. He can use the power of posse and his regular force. The plundered merchants agree to furnish money as needed. Maxime Valois is needed as the directing brain. In study over news and maps, the result proves that the coast and south are only used for the sale of stock or for refuge.

The extreme north of the State shows no prey, save the starving Klamath Indians. It is true the robbers never have cursed the upper mountains. Their control sweeps from Shasta to Sonoma, from Marysville and Nevada as far as the gates of Sacramento, and down to the Livermore Pass. Mariposa groans under their attacks.

Valois concludes this bloody warfare is a logical result of the unnecessary conquest of California. To lose their nationality is galling. To see Mexico, which abandoned California, get $15,000,000 in compensation for the birthright of the Dons is maddening. It irritates the suspicious native blood. To be ground down daily, causes continual bickering. Ranch after ranch falls away under usury or unjust decisions. In this ably planned brigandage, Valois discerns some young resentful Californian of good family has assisted. The terrific brutality points also to a relentless daring nature, aroused by some special wrong.

Valois muses at night in his lonely office. His ready revolvers are at hand. Even here in Stockton a Mexican, friendly to the authorities, has been filled with bullets by a horseman. The assailant was swathed to his head in his scrape. He dashed away like the wind. There is danger everywhere.

The young lawyer pictures this, the daring bravo—hero by nature—made a butcher and a fiend by goading sorrows. It must be some one who knows the Americans, who has travelled the interior, and has personal wrongs to avenge.

These dark riders strike both innocent and guilty. They kill without reason, and destroy in mere wantonness. The band has never been met in its full muster. The general operations are always the same. It seems to Valois that there are two burning questions:

First—Who is the leader?

Second—Where is the hiding-place or stronghold?

To paralyze the band, this master intelligence must be neutralized by death. To finish the work, that stronghold must be found or destroyed.

There is as yet no concurrent voice as to their leader. Maxime Valois is positive, however, that the stronghold is not far from the slopes of Mariposa. The deadly riders seem to disappear, when driven towards Stockton. They afterwards turn up, as if sure shelter was near.

But who will hound this fiend to his lair? Valois sends for the sheriff. They decide to organize a picked corps of men. They will ride the roads, with leaders selected from veteran Indian fighters. Others are old soldiers of the Mexican war. The heaviest rewards are offered, to stimulate the capture of the bandit chiefs. Valois knows, though, that money will never cause a Mexican to betray any countryman to the Americans. A woman's indiscretion, yes, a jealous sweetheart's bitter hatred might lead to gaining the bandit chief's identity. But gold. Never! The Mexicans never needed it, save to gamble. Judas is their national scapegoat.

The sheriff has collated every story of attack. Valois draws out the personality of the leading actor in this revelry of death. A superb horseman, of medium size, who handles his American dragoon revolvers with lightning rapidity. A young man in a yellow, black-striped scrape. He is always superbly mounted. He has curling blackest hair. Two dark eyes, burning under bushy brows, are the principal features. This man has either led the murderers or been present at the fiercest attacks. In many pistol duels, he has killed some poor devil in plain sight of his comrades.

Valois decides to search all towns where Spanish women abound, for such a romantic figure. This bandit must need supplies and ammunition. He must visit women, the fandango, and the attractions of monte. He must have friends to give him news of treasure movements. Valois watches secretly the Spanish quarters of all the mountain towns and the great ranchos.

The Louisianian knows that every gambling-shop and dance-house is a centre of spies and marauders. The throngs of unnoticed Mexicans, in a land where every traveller is an armed horseman, enable these robber fiends to mingle with the innocent. The common language, hatred of the Americans, the hospitality to criminals of their blood, and the admiration of the sullen natives for these bravos, prevent any dependence on the Mexican population.

The pursuers have often failed because of lack of supplies, and worn-out steeds. The villains are secretly refitted by those who harbor them. An hour suffices to drive up the "caballada," and remount the bandits at any friendly interior ranch.

Obstinate silence is all the roadside dwellers' return to questions.

Valois cons over the bloody record of the last two years. The desperate crimes begin with Andres Armijo and Tomas Maria Carrillo. They were unyielding ex-soldiers. Both of these have been run to earth. Salamon Pico, an independent bandit, of native blood, follows the same general career. John Irving, a renegade American, has held the southern part of the State. With his followers, he murdered General Bean and others. He was only an outcast foreigner.

Maxime Valois knows that Irving and his band have been butchered by savage Indians near the Colorado. Yet none of these have killed for mere lust of blood. This mysterious chieftain who murders for personal vengeance, is soon known to the determined Louisianian. In the long trail of tiger-like assassinations, the robber is disclosed by his unequalled thirst for blood.

"Joaquin Murieta, Joaquin the Mountain Robber, Joaquin the Yellow Tiger." He flashes out from the dark shades of night, or the depths of chaparral and forest. His insane butchery proves Valois to be correct.

Dashing through camps, lurking around towns, appearing in distant localities, he robs stages, plunders stations, and personally murders innocent travellers. Express riders are ambushed. The word "Joaquin," scrawled on a monte card, and pinned to the dead man's breast, often tells the tale. Lonely men are found on the trails with the fatal bullet-hole in the back of the head, shot in surprise. Sometimes he appears with followers, often alone. Now openly daring individual conflict, then slinking at night and in silence. Sneak, bravo, and tiger. He is a Turpin in horsemanship. A fiend in his thirst for blood. A charmed life seems his. On magnificent steeds, he rides down the fleeing traveller. He coolly murders the exhausted "Gringo," taunting his hated race with cowardice. Sweeping from north to south, five hundred miles, this yellow-clad fiend always keeps the Sacramento or San Joaquin between him and the coast. Men shudder at the name of Joaquin Murieta.

Valois sees that the robber chief's permanent haunt is somewhere in the Sierras. This must be found. The sheriffs of Placer, Nevada, Sierra, El Dorado, Tuolumne, Calaveras, and Mariposa counties are in the field with posses. Skirmish after skirmish occurs. All doubtful men are arrested. Yet the red record continues. Doubling on the pursuers, hiding, the bandit whirls from Shasta to Tehama, from Oroville to Sacramento, from Marysville to Placerville. Stockton, San Andreas, Sonora, and Mariposa are terrorized. Plundered pack-trains, murdered men, and robbed wayfarers prove that Joaquin Murieta is ever at work. His swoop is unerring. The yellow serape, black banded, the dark scowling face, and the battery of four revolvers, two on his body, two on his saddle, soon make him known to all the State.

The Governor offers five thousand dollars State reward for Joaquin's head. County rewards are also published. Valois watches all the leading Mexican families. Some wild son or member must be unaccounted for. No criminal has yet appeared of good blood, save Tomas Maria Carrillo. But he has been dead a year, shot in his tracks by a brave man. The bandits hover around Stockton. The Americans go heavily armed, and only travel in large bodies. Public rage reaches its climax, when there is found pinned on the body of a dead deputy-sheriff a printed proclamation of the Governor of $5,000 for Joaquin's head.

Under the printed words is the scrawl:

"I myself will give ten thousand.

"JOAQUIN."

The passions of the Americans break loose. Innocent Mexicans are shot and hanged; all stragglers driven out.

The San Joaquin valley becomes a theatre of continued conflict.

"Claudio," another dark chief, ravages the Salinas. He is the robber king of the coast. The officers find a union between the coast and inland bandits. Now the manly settlers of the San Joaquin rise in wrath. Texan rangers, old veterans, heroes of Comanche and Sioux battles, all swear to hunt Joaquin Murieta to death.

Maxime Valois takes the saddle. He posts strong forces in the defiles opening to the coast. A secret messenger leaves for Monterey. A vigorous attack on the coast bandits drives them toward the inland passes.

"Claudio" and his followers are killed, after a bitter hand-to-hand duel. One or two are hanged. Sheriff Cocks is the hero of the coast. Maxime Valois calls his ablest men together.

Dividing the main forces into several bodies, a leader is selected for each squad. Scouts are thrown out. They report daily to the heads of divisions. The moving forces are ready to close in and envelop their hated enemy.

Learning of the death of "Claudio," and that a strong body of Southern settlers is also in the field, Maxime Valois feels the band of Joaquin is cut off in the square between Placerville and Sonora, Stockton and the Sierras. It is agreed that the fortunate division striking the robbers, shall follow the warm trail to the last man and horse. Reinforcements will push after them.

The sheriff has charge of one, Maxime Valois of another, Captain Harry Love, a swarthy long-haired Texan ranger, of the third. Love's magnificent horsemanship, his dark features, drooping mustache and general appearance, might class him as a Spaniard. Blackened with the burning sun of the plains, the deserts, and tropic Mexico, his cavalier locks sweep to his shoulders. The heavy Kentucky rifle, always carried across his saddle, proves him the typical frontiersman and ranger. He is a dead shot. Many a Comanche and guerilla have fallen under the unerring aim of Harry Love. His agile frame, quickness with the revolver, and nerve with the bowie-knife, have made him equally feared at close quarters.

In the dark hours of a spring morning of 1854, the main command breaks into its three divisions. The sheriff covers the lines towards the north and San Andreas. Maxime skirts the Sierras. Harry Love, marching silently and at night, hiding his command by day, marches towards Sonora. He sweeps around and rejoins Valois' main body. The net is spread.

Scouts are distributed over this region. The mad wolf of the Sierras is at last to be hunted to his lair.

The unknown retreat must be in the Sierras. He determines to throw his own command over the valley towards the unvisited Lagunitas rancho. Padre Francisco will be there, a good adviser. Valois, the rich and successful lawyer, is another man from the penniless prisoner of seven years before. Knowing the hatred of Don Miguel for the Americans, he has never revisited the place. Still he would like to meet the beloved padre again. He will not uselessly enrage the gloomy lord of Lagunitas. Don Miguel is a hermit now.

Three days' march, skilfully concealed, brings him to the notched pass, where Lagunitas lies under its sentinel mountains.

Brooding over the past, thinking of the great untravelled regions behind the grant, stories from the early life of Don Miguel haunt the sleepless hours of the anxious young Southern leader. He lies under the stars, wrapped in his blankets. Lagunitas, once more!

Up before day, filing through light forest and down the passes of the foothills, the command threads its way. Valois calls his leading subordinates together. He arranges the visit to the ranch. He sends a squad of five to ride down the roads a few miles, and meet any scouts or vedettes of the other Southern party. Valois directs his men where to rejoin him. He points out, a few miles ahead, a rocky cliff, behind which the rolling hills around Lagunitas offer several hidden approaches to the rancho. Cautiously leading his men, to avoid a general alarm, he skirts the woods. The party rides in Indian file, to leave a light trail only.

Before the frowning cliff is neared, Valois' keen eye sees his scouts straggling back. They are galloping at rapid speed, making for the cliff. The whole command, with smoking steeds, soon joins the scouts. With them are two of Love's outriders. The bandits are near at hand. For the scouts, riding up all night from Love's body, have taken the main road. Within ten miles they find several dead men—the ghastly handiwork of Joaquin. Their breathless report is soon over. Detaching ten fresh men, with one of the news-bearers, to join Love and bring him up post-haste, Maxime Valois orders every man to prepare his girths and arms for action. Guided by the other scouts, the whole command pricks briskly over to the concealment of a rolling valley. There is but one ridge between it, now, and Lagunitas.

Maxime calls up his aids. He gives them his rapid directions. Only the previous knowledge of the ex-pathfinder enabled him to throw his men behind the sheltering ridge, unseen from the old Don's headquarters.

In case of meeting any robbers, the subordinates are to seize and hold the ranch with ten determined men. He throws the rest out in a strong line, to sweep east and south, till Love's column is met. Winding into the glen, Valois takes five men and mounts the ridge.

He now skilfully nears the crest of the ridge. The main command is moving slowly, a few hundred yards below. With the skill of the old scout of the plains, he brings his little squad up to the shoulder of the ridge to the south of the rancho. Dismounting, Indian-like, he crawls up to the summit, from which the beautiful panorama of glittering Lagunitas lies before him. By his side is a tried friend. A life and death supporter.

Lagunitas again! It is backed by the forest, where swaying pines are singing the same old song of seven long years ago. His eye sweeps over the scene.

Quick as a flash, Valois springs back to the horses. Two mounted cavaliers, followed by a serving man, can be seen smartly loping away to the southeast. They are bending towards the region where Love's course, the trail of the bandits, and Maxime's march intersect. Is it treachery? Some one to warn the robbers!

Not a moment to lose! "Harris," cries Valois to his companion, "lead the main command over to that mountain. Be ready to strike any moment. Send Hill and ten men to capture the ranch by moving over the ridge. Keep every one there. Hold every human inmate. I'll cut these men off." Away gallops Harris. Valois leads the four over the other spur. They drop down the eastern slope of the point. The riders have to pass near. In rapid words he orders them to throw themselves quickly, at a dead run, ahead of the travellers. He waits till, six or eight hundred yards away, the strange horsemen pass the lowest point of the ridge. The first three scouts are now well across the line of march of the quick-moving strangers. Then, with a word, "Now, boys, remember!" Valois spurs his roan out into the open. At a wild gallop he cuts off the retreat of the horsemen.

Ha! one turns. They are discovered. In an instant the wild mustangs are racing south. Valois dashes along in pursuit. He has warned his men to use no firearms till absolutely necessary. He shouts to his two followers to wait till the last. He would capture, not kill, these three spies.

Out from the slopes below, the main column, at a brisk trot, cross the valley. They are led by the quick-eyed scout, who knows how to throw them on the narrowing suspected region. Love's men and the band of Joaquin, if here, must soon meet. The three men in advance ride up at different points. They have seen pursuer and pursued galloping madly towards them. Instantly the man following the first rider darts northward, and spurring up a ridge disappears, followed by two of the three scouts in advance. The other rider draws up and stands his ground with his servant. As Valois and his companions ride up, the crack, crack, crack, of heavy dragoon revolvers is wafted over the ridge. It is now too late for prudence. The horseman at bay has wheeled. Maxime recognizes the old Don.

Miguel Peralta is no man to be bearded in his own lair, unscathed. He spurs his horse back towards the ranch. He fires rapidly into the three pursuers as he darts by. He is a dangerous foe yet.

Valois feels a sharp pang in his shoulder. He reels in his saddle. His revolver lies in the dust. The ringing reports of his body-guard peal out as they empty their pistols at fleeing horse and man, The servant runs up, thoroughly frightened.

Don Miguel's best horse has made its last leap. It crashes down, pinioning the old soldier to the ground. A bullet luckily has pierced its brain.

Before the old ranchero can struggle to his feet, his hands are twisted behind his back. A couple of turns of a lariat clamp his wrists with no fairy band. A cocked pistol pressed against his head tells him that the game is up.

Valois drops, half fainting, from his horse, while his men disarm and bind the sullen old Mexican. The blood pouring from Valois' shoulder calls for immediate bandaging. The two pursuers of the other fugitive now ride smartly back.

One lags along, with a torn and shattered jaw. His companion is unhurt. He bears across his saddle bow a well-known emblem, the yellow and black scrape of Joaquin Murieta. Several ball holes prove it might have been his shroud. Valois quickly interrogates the two; after a hasty pistol duel, in which the flowing serape misled the two practised shots, the fugitive plunged down a steep slope, with all the recklessness of a Californian vaquero. It was Joaquin!

When the pursuers reached the trail, it was marked by the abandoned blanket. A heavy saddle also lay there, cut loose. Joaquin Murieta was riding away on the wings of the wind, but unwittingly into the jaws of death. Two or three from the main body took up the trail. The whole body pushed ahead on the track of the flying bandit—ready for fight.

With failing energies, Valois directs the unwounded pursuer to rejoin the column. He sends stern orders to Harris, to spare neither man nor beast, to follow the trail to the last. Even to the heart of the gloomy forests, this great human vampire must be hounded on his lonely ride to death.

In the saddle, held up by his men, Maxime Valois toils slowly towards Lagunitas. Beside him the wounded scout, pistol in hand, rides as a body-guard. In charge of growling old Don Miguel, a man leads him, dismounted, by a lariat. His horse and trappings lie on the trail, after removing all the arms. He is sullen and silent. His servant is a mere human animal. Cautiously approaching, the plaza lies below them. In the square, the horses of the captors can be seen peacefully grazing. Sentinels are mounted at several places. Valois at last reenters the old hacienda, wounded, but in pride, as a conqueror.

He is met at the priest's door by Padre Francisco. Don Miguel Peralta, the last of the land barons of the San Joaquin, is now a prisoner in the sacristy of the church. Time has its revenges. The turns of fortune's wheel. Padre Francisco assembles the entire population of the home ranch by the clanging of the church bell. In a few words he explains the reasons of the occupancy. He orders the hired men to remain in the enclosure under the guard of the sentinels. He dresses skilfully the wound of Maxime. He patches up the face of the wounded scout, whose proudest future boast will be that Joaquin Murieta gave him those honorable scars.

Maxime, worn and faint, falls into a fevered sleep. His subordinate holds the ranch, with all the force ready for any attack. The afternoon wears on. In sleep Valois forgets both the flying bandit and his fate. The old Don, his eyes filled with scalding tears, rages in his bonds. Pale, frightened Donna Juanita clasps her hands in the agony of prayer before the crucifix in the chapel. Beside her stands Dolores, now a budding beauty, in radiant womanhood. The dark-eyed young girl is mute. Her pathetic glances are as shy as a wounded deer's dying gaze. "The dreaded Americanos."

Over the beautiful hills, fanned by the breezes of sunset, the softened shadows fall. Twilight brings the hush and rest of early evening. The stars mirror themselves in the sparkling bosom of Lagunitas.

Watching the wounded leader, Padre Francisco's seamed, thoughtful face is very grave. His thin fingers tell the beads of the rosary. Prayer after prayer passes his moving lips.

The shadow of sorrow, sin, and shame is on Lagunitas. He fears for the future of the family. There has been foul play. There the tiger of Sonora has made his lair in the trackless ca¤ons and rich valleys of the foot-hills. The old Don must have known all.

Prayers for the dead and dying fall on the silence of the night. They are roughly broken by the trampling of horses' feet. The priest is called out by the sentinel. By the dim light of the stars, he sees two score shadowy horsemen. Between their lines, several poor wretches are bound and shivering in captivity.

A swarthy figure swings from the saddle. Captain Harry Love springs across the threshold. Unmindful of the warning of the priest, he rouses Valois. He cries exultantly, "We have him this time, squire!" Lying on the portico, tied in the sack, in which it swung at the ranger's saddle-horn, is the head of Joaquin Murieta. Valois struggles to his feet. Surrounded by the victors, by the light of a torch, he gazes on the awful token of victory. As the timid priest sees the fearful object, he cries, "Joaquin Carrillo!"

It is indeed he. The disgraced scion of an old and proud line. The good priest shudders as Harry Love, leaning on the rifle which sent its ball into Joaquin's heart, calmly says, "That thing is worth ten thousand dollars to me to-night, Valois!"

Already, swift riders are bringing up the forces of the sheriff. In the morning the history is known. The converging columns struck the bandits, who scattered. The work of vengeance was quick. "Three-fingered Jack," the murderous ancient of the bandit king, is killed in the camp. Several fugitives are captured. Several more hung. Joaquin Murieta, exhausted in the flight of the morning, his horse tired and wounded, drops from the charger, at a snap shot of the intrepid ranger, Love. The robber has finished his last ride.

Valois recovers rapidly. He has much to do to stem the resentment of the pursuers. The head of Joaquin and the hand of Three-fingered Jack are poor, scanty booty. Not as ghastly as the half-dozen corpses swinging on Lagunitas' oaks, and ghastly trophies of a chase of months. The prisoners are lynched. Far and wide, cowardly avengers butcher suspected Mexicans. California breathes freely now. Joaquin Murieta Carrillo will weave no more guerilla plots.

The padre and Valois commune with the frightened lady of the hacienda. Donna Juanita implores protection. Shy Dolores puts her slender hand in his, and begs him to protect her beloved father.

Maxime, in pity for the two women, conceals the history gathered from honorable Fran‡ois Ribaut. Joaquin played skilfully upon Don Miguel's hatred of the Americans. He knew of the lurking places behind Lagunitas. From these interior fastnesses, known to Don Miguel from early days, Joaquin could move on several short lines. He thus appeared as if by magic. With confederates at different places, his scattered bands had a rendezvous near Lagunitas. His followers mingled with different communities, and were picked up here and there on his raids. Special attacks were suggested by treasure movements. The murdering was not executed by the general banditti, but by Joaquin alone, and one or two of his special bravos. Examining the captives, Padre Francisco, by the agency of the Church, learned that, a few years before, a lovely Mexican girl, to whom Joaquin was bound by a desperate passion, was the victim of foul outrage by some wandering American brutes. Her death, broken-hearted, caused the desperado to swear her grave should be watered with American blood. Pride of race, and a bitter thirst for revenge, made Joaquin Murieta what he was,—a human scourge. His boyhood, spent roaming over the interior, rendered him matchless in local topography.

It was possible to disguise the fact of supplies being drawn from Lagunitas. Don Miguel was a great ranchero. As days rolled on, the plunder of the bandits was brought to the rancho. Joaquin's mutilated body was a prey to the mountain wolf. The ghastly evidences of victory were sent to San Francisco, where they remained for years, a reminder of bloody reprisal.

Padre Francisco saw with fear the rising indignation against Don Miguel. A clamor for his blood arose. Maxime Valois plead for the old Commandante. He had really imagined Joaquin's vendetta to be a sort of lawful war.

The forces began to leave Lagunitas. Only a strong escort body remained. Valois prepares his departure.

In a last interview, with Padre Francisco present, the lawyer warned Don Miguel not to leave his hacienda for some time. His life would surely be sacrificed to the feelings of the Americans. Thankful for their safety, the mother and sweet girl Dolores gratefully bid adieu to Maxime. He headed, himself, the last departing band of the invaders. The roads were safe to all. No trace of treasures of Joaquin was found. Great was the murmuring of the rangers. Were these hoards concealed on the rancho? Search availed nothing. Valois spurs down the road. Lagunitas! He breathes freer, now that the avengers are balked, at Lagunitas. They would even sack the rancho. Camping twenty miles away, Maxime dreams of his Southern home, as the stars sweep westward.

In the morning, a rough hand rouses him. It is the sentinel.

"Captain, wake up!"

He springs to his feet. "What is it?" he cries.

"Half the men are gone, sir. They have stolen back to hang the old Spaniard. They think he has concealed Joaquin's treasures."

Valois rouses several tired friends.

"My horse!" he yells.

As he springs to the saddle, the sentinel tells him a friend disclosed the plot. Fear kept him silent till the mutineers stole away.

"There are yet two hours to day. Is there time?" Maxime stretches out in the gallop of a skilled plainsman. He must save the priest and the women at least.

The mutineers will wait till daylight for their swoop. They are mad with the thirst for the lost treasures of Joaquin.

On, on, with the swing of the prairie wolf, the young leader gallops. He rides down man after man. As he gallops he thinks of Se¤ora Juanita, the defenceless priest, the wounded old Commandante, and the sweet blossoming beauty of the Sierras, star-eyed young Dolores. They must be saved. On, on!

Day points over the hills as Maxime dashes into the unguarded plaza of the ranch. There are sounds of shots, yells, and trampling feet. He springs from his exhausted steed. The doors of the ranch-house give way. He rushes to the entrance, to find the rooms empty. In a moment he realizes the facts. He reaches the priest's house. Beating on the door, he cries: "Open quick! It is Valois." Springing inside he finds Padre Francisco, his eyes lit up with the courage of a gallant French gentleman.

"They are all here," he gasps. "Safe?" queries Valois. "Yes." "Thank God!" Maxime cries. "Quick! Hurry them into the church. Hold the sacristy door."

Maxime's two or three friends have followed him. The doors are closed behind them. The heavy adobe walls are shot-proof. The refuge of the church is gained none too soon.

The mutineers spread through the padre's house. Pouring in through the sacristy passage, they are faced in the gray dawn by Valois, his eyes blazing. He holds a dragoon revolver in each hand. He is a dead shot. Yet the mutineers are fearless.

"Give up the Greaser robber!" is their mad yell.

"Never!" cries Valois. "He is old and foolish, but he shall not be abused. Let him answer to the law."

"Captain," cries one, "we don't want to hurt you, but we are going to find Joaquin's plunder."

"The first man who moves over this threshold is a dead man!" cries Valois.

No one cares to be first, but they rage wildly. They all gather for a rush. Weapons are ominously clicking. As they come on, Padre Francisco stands before them, pale and calm in the morning light.

"Kill me first, my friends," he says. His body covers Valois.

The knot of desperate men stand back. They cannot shoot an unarmed priest, yet growling murmurs are heard: "Burn them out," "Go ahead."

"Shoot the old Greaser."

A sound of trampling hoofs drowns their cries. The main body of the detachment, stung with shame, have galloped back to rescue Valois. It is over. The mutineers sullenly retire in a body.

Three hours later the detachment rides off. The rebels have wandered away. Guarded by the friends of the wild night-ride, Valois remains at Lagunitas.

Under questioning of the padre, whose honorable French blood boils at the domain being made a nest of assassins, the Don describes Joaquin's lurking-places. With one or two mozos, Valois visits all the old camps of the freebooters, within seventy-five miles. He leaves his men at Lagunitas for safety. He threads the fastnesses of the inviolate forests. They stretch from Shasta to Fresno, the great sugar pines and redwoods of California.

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

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

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

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

Maxime Valois blushes for his own nation. He realizes that indigenous dwellers must go to the wall in poverty, to their death. They go down before the rush of the wolf pack, hunting gold, always gold.

Taking the precaution to leave men to bear to him any messages from the padre, Maxime leaves Lagunitas for Stockton. The affairs of the community call him home. Property, covered by his investments, has been exposed to fire and flood at Sacramento. Sari Francisco has been half destroyed by a great conflagration. These calamities make thousands penniless.

Before he rides away, old Don Miguel comes to say adieu to his savior, once his prisoner. "Se¤or Americano," he murmurs, "be pleased to come to my house." Followed by the padre, Valois enters. There Don Miguel bids Donna Juanita and Dolores thank the man who saved his life.

"I shall not be here long, Se¤or Abogado," he says; "I wish you and the padre to watch over my wife and child. YOU are a 'caballero' and 'buen Cristiano.'"

Padre Francisco has proved that the young leader is a true child of the Church.

The finest horse on the rancho is led to the door. It is trapped with Don Miguel's state equipment. With a wave of the hand, he says:

"Se¤or, vayase V. con Dios. That horse will never fail you. It is the pride of the Lagunitas herds."

Maxime promises to aid in any future juncture. He rides out from lonely Lagunitas, near which tradition to-day locates those fabulous deposits, the vanished treasures of Joaquin, the mountain robber.

A generation glides away. The riches, long sought for, are never found. This blood-stained gold may lie hidden beneath the soil of Mariposa, but it is beyond human ken.

There are wild rejoicings at Stockton. Harry Love, splendid in gayest trappings, is the hero of the hour. The dead mountain tiger was the last leader of resistance to the Americans. The humbled Mexicans sink into the condition of wandering helots. The only possession left is their unconquerable pride, and the sadness which wraps them in a gloomy mantle.

---