The Squatter and the Don / A Novel Descriptive of Contemporary Occurrences in California

by María Amparo Ruiz de Burton

“Well, then we will make a motion for a new trial, or we will call the same suit by some other name, and file a new complaint, or do something else, so as to keep in possession of the property. Possession, as long as it lasts, is ownership.”

“But in the end you don't win?”

“Who says we don't? Isn't it to win if you keep in possession as long as you live? Or, any way, as long as my Judge is in office? And in office he shall be, for I shall keep him there, if I have to swill whisky by the barrel in election times, see if I don't.”

And with this low bragging and bar-room swagger Roper managed to impose upon people, saying that his influence kept the Judge in office, because he had advocated his cause and worked to have him elected. So, with his delusive sophistry, Peter got clients among the Alamar settlers. While making inquiries about the Alamar lands he came across the entry made by Don Mariano of the land sold to Clarence. This discovery he communicated to Gasbang, and we have seen what resulted.

Now these two worthies were rejoicing at the effect they had caused, and would have been happier had they known the full extent of the misery they had inflicted. They guessed enough, however, to furnish them with matter for their coarse jests, and Roper got intoxicated to celebrate his triumph. He, of course, came out of the tavern with a black eye, but being the chosen friend and political factotum of the Judge, this public degradation was kindly condoned, and San Diego threw its cloak over the prostrate Roper, as usual, when overcome by whisky.

It would have seemed unbearable to Darrell if he had known how amused and pleased Roper and Gasbang were to know that they had brought trouble to the Alamares, and made him ridiculous. This additional misery, however, was fortunately spared to the already much-afflicted, proud spirit. But, indeed, he suffered enough to have satisfied the most relentless Nemesis. No one guessed the extent of his misery. In fact, Clarence was the only one who suspected the existence of some secret source of irritation goading him, and had that kind son been permitted to remain at home, he would have coaxed and persuaded his father to say what was torturing him. For torture it was—mental and physical. A band of purple and black encircled his body, and his arms were of that same hue from the elbow to the shoulder. The bruises made by the tight coil of the reata had left a narrow ring, which became blacker as it grew daily wider and wider. He had done nothing to relieve the soreness, and he went about aching so much that he could scarcely walk, and with a fever to intensify his pains, he was indeed a wretched man. But all this physical suffering was nothing compared to the mental distress of being bereft of his wife's cherished society. He knew that Mrs. Darrell was grieved to think that he was the cause of all the unhappiness brought upon two innocent families, and this thought almost made him crazy.

He was willing to accept his bodily aches as a retributive penance for his cruelty to Clarence, but to endure the loneliness of his room when his infirm body could hardly bear the weight of his bitter remorse, that indeed seemed beyond human strength. He would go to his solitary bedroom, close the door, and extend his aching, bruised arms in silent appeal, in mute supplication to the adored wife who was now in another room, at the bedside of Alice, forgetful of the entire world except the suffering child before her, and the exiled one, for the sight of whom her heart yearned with aching pulsations.

And where was he, the best beloved, now? He lay on a sick bed, delirious, with a raging fever that seemed to be drying the very fountain of his young life. They had not made a very quick trip to Yuma, for the hot sands of the desert seemed to burn through the very hoofs of the horses, and they were obliged to stop at ten o'clock A.M., and not resume their journey until past three in the afternoon. The exposure to this excessive heat was more than Clarence had strength to endure, for he was already ill when he arrived at Los Angeles. He was only partially conscious when they arrived at the mine, and Fred now gave all his time and attention to the care of his friend. By a great effort of his mind, Clarence had succeeded in impressing upon Fred that he was, on no consideration whatever, to tell to his family or write to anybody in San Diego that he was ill. “They must not be made anxious,” he whispered. “If I get well, I'll tell them myself; if I die, they'll know it soon enough.” He closed his eyes, and in a short time delirium had come to make him forget how miserable he was.

Immediately Fred telegraphed to Hubert to send the best physician he could induce to come to that terribly hot climate. No money or trouble was spared, for the two brothers valued Clarence too highly to neglect anything that might be for his benefit. The doctor went at once. The sum of five thousand dollars was paid down to him, and five thousand more he would get on his return after leaving Clarence out of danger, if he lived.

In the meantime, his letters, sent from Los Angeles, had arrived at Alamar, and were answered immediately. In his letters to Gabriel and George, Clarence had explained that his absence must not make any difference in the business arrangement they had made, and the projected bank would be established by George whenever he thought fit to do so—whenever the prospect of the Texas Pacific Railroad justified it. For this purpose, and to pay for the cattle sent to the mines, he had instructed his banker to pay to Don Mariano three hundred thousand dollars.