The Little Lady of Lagunitas by Richard Henry SavageA Franco-Californian Romance (page 3)

Hardin, betting on black, seems to win steadily. “French Charlie” sets his store of ready gold on the red. It is a reckless duel of the two men through the medium of the golden arrow, twirled by the voluptuous stranger.

A sudden idea strikes Valois. He notes the ominous sparkle of “French Charlie’s” eye. It is cold as the depths of a mountain-pool. Is Hardin betting on the black to compliment the presiding dark beauty? Murmurs arise among the bystanders. The play grows higher. Valois moves away from the surging crowd, to wait his own opportunity. A glass of wine with a friend enables him to learn her history. She has been pursued by “French Charlie” since her arrival from Panama by steamer. No one knows if the reigning beauty is Havanese or a French Creole. Several aver she speaks French and Spanish with equal ease. English receives a dainty foreign accent from the rosebud lips. Her mysterious identity is guarded by the delighted proprietors. The riches of their deep-jawed safes tell of her wonderful luck, address, or skill.

Charlie has in vain tried to cross the invisible barrier which fences her from the men around her. To-night he is as unlucky in his heavy play, as in arousing any passion in that wonderful beauty of unexplained identity. The management will answer no questions. This nightly excitement feeds on itself. “French Charlie” has been drinking deeply. His play grows more unlucky. Valois moves to the table, to quietly induce Hardin to leave. Some inner foreboding tells Valois there is danger in the gambling duel of the two men he watches. As he forces his way in, Charlie, dashing a last handful of gold upon the red, turns his ferocious eyes on Hardin. The lawyer calmly waits the turn of the arrow. Some quick presentiment reaches the mind of the woman. Her nerves are shaken with the strain of long repression. The arrow trembles on the line in stopping. The queen’s eyes, for the first time, catch the burning glances of Philip Hardin. “French Charlie,” with an oath, grasps the hand of the woman. She is raking in his lost coins before paying Hardin’s bet. It is his last handful of gold.

Maddened with drink and his losses, Charlie yields to jealousy of his victorious neighbor. “French Charlie” roughly twists the wrist of the woman. With a sharp shriek, she snatches the dagger from her bosom. She draws it over the back of the gambler’s hand. He howls with pain. Like a flash he tears a knife from his bosom. He springs around the table toward the woman. With a loud scream, she jumps back toward the wall. She seeks to save herself, casting golden showers on the floor, in a rattling avalanche. Before the ready hireling desperadoes of the haunt can seize Charlie, the affrighted circle scatters. Valois’ eye catches, the flash of a silver-mounted derringer. Its barking report rings out as “French Charlie’s” right arm drops to his side. His bowie-knife falls ringing on the floor. A despairing curse is heard. The Creole gambler snatches, with the other hand, a pistol. He springs like a lion on Philip Hardin. One step back Hardin retreats. No word comes from his closed lips. The mate of the derringer rings out loudly Charlie’s death warrant. The gambler crashes to the floor. His heart’s blood floods the scattered gold. The pistol is yet clenched in his stiffened left hand. Valois rushes to Hardin. He brushes him aside, and springs to the side of the “Queen of the El Dorado.” She falls senseless in his arms. In a few moments the motley crowd has been hurried from the doors. The great entrances are barred. The frightened women dealers seek their dressing-rooms. All fear the results of this brawl. Their cheeks are ashy pale under paint and powder. The treasures are swiftly swept from the gaming tables by the nimble-witted croupiers. Hardin and Valois are left with the unconscious fallen beauty. A couple of the lately organized city police enter and take charge. Even the blood stained gold is gathered from the floor. Light after light is turned out. The main hall has at last no tenants but the night watchman and the police, waiting by the dead gambler. He lies prone on the floor, awaiting his last judge, the city coroner. This genial official is sought from his cards and cups, to certify the causes of death of the outcast of society. A self-demonstrating problem. The gaping wound tells its story.

Valois is speechless and stunned with the quickness of the deadly quarrel. He gloomily watches Hardin supporting the fainting woman. Slowly her eyes unclose. They meet Hardin’s in one long, steadfast, inscrutable glance. She shudders and says, “Take me away.” She covers her siren face with her jewelled hands, to avoid the sight of the waxy features and stiffening form of the thing lying there. Ten minutes ago it was the embodiment of wildest human passion and tiger-like activity. Vale, “French Charlie.”

Hardin has quickly sent for several influential friends. On their arrival he is permitted to leave, escorted by a policeman. The shaken sorceress, whose fatal beauty has thrown two determined men against each other in a sudden duel to the death, walks at his side. There is a bond of blood sealed between them. It is the mere sensation of a night; the talk of an idle day. On the next evening the “El Dorado” is thronged with a great multitude. It is eager to gaze on the wondrous woman’s face, for which “French Charlie” died. Their quest is vain. Another daughter of the Paphian divinity presides at the shrine of rouge et noir. The blood-stains are effaced from the floor. A fresh red mound in the city cemetery is the only relic of French Charlie. Philip Hardin, released upon heavy bail, awaits a farcical investigation. After a few days he bears no legal burden of this crime. Only the easy load upon his conscience. Although the mark of Cain sets up a barrier between him and his fellows, and the murder calls for the vengeance of God, Philip Hardin goes his way with unclouded brow. His eyes have a strange new light in them.

The “Queen of the El Dorado” sits no more at the wheel of fortune. Day succeeds to day. Nightly expectation is balked. Her absent charms are magnified in description. The memory of the graceful, dazzling Hortense Duval fades from the men who struggle around the gaming boards of the great “El Dorado.” She never shows her charming face again in the hall.

The secret of the disappearance of this mysterious sovereign of chance is known to but few. It is merely surmised by others. To Maxime Valois the bloody occurrence has borne fruits of importance. As soon as some business is arranged, the shadowy barrier of this tragedy divides the two men. Though slight, it is yet such that Valois decides to go to Stockton. The San Joaquin valley offers him a field. Land matters give ample scope to his talents. The investment in lands can be better arranged from there. The Creole is glad to cast his lot in the new community. By sympathy, many Southerners crowd in. They gain control of the beautiful prairies from which the herds of elk and antelope are disappearing.

Philip Hardin’s safety is assured. With no open breach of friendship between them, Maxime still feels estranged. He visits the scene of his future residence. His belongings follow him. It was an intuition following a tacit understanding. Man instinctively shuns the murderer.

Maxime never asked of the future of the vanished queen of the El Dorado. In his visits to San Francisco he finds that few cross Philip Hardin’s threshold socially. Even these are never bid to come again. Is there a hidden queen in the house on the hill? Rumor says so.

Rising in power, Philip Hardin steadily moves forward. He asks no favors. He seeks no friends. All unmindful is he of the tattle that a veiled lady of elegant appearance sometimes walks under the leafy bowers shading his lovely home.

The excitable populace find new food for gossip. There are more residences than one in San Francisco, where dreamy luxury is hidden within the unromantic wooden boxes called residences.

Fair faces gleam out furtively from these casements. At open doors, across whose thresholds no woman of position ever sets a foot, wealth stands on guard. Silence seals the portals. The vassals of gold wait in velvet slippers. The laws of possession are enforced by the dangers of any trespass on these Western harems.

While the queen city of the West rises rapidly it is only a modern Babylon on the hills of the bay. The influx augments all classes. Every element of present and future usefulness slowly makes headway against the current of mere adventure. Natural obstacles yield to patient, honest industry. California begins in grains, fruits, and all the rich returns of nature, to show that Ceres, Flora, and Pomona are a trinity of witching good fairies. They beckon to the world to wander hither, and rest under these blue-vaulted balmy skies. Near the splendid streams, picturesque ridges, and lovely valleys of the new State, health and happiness may be found, even peace.

The State capital is located, drawn by the golden magnet, at Sacramento. The only conquest left for the dominating Americans, is the development of this rich landed domain. Here, where the Padres dreamed over their monkish breviaries, where the nomad native Californians lived only on the carcasses of their wild herds, the richest plains on earth invite the honest hand of the farmer.

The era of frantic dissipation, wildest license, insane speculation, and temporary abiding wears away. Bower and blossom, bird and bee, begin to adorn the new homes of the Pacific.

Mighty-hearted men, keen of vision, strong of purpose, appear. The face of nature is made to change under the resolute attacks of inventive man. Roads and bridges, wharves and storehouses, telegraph lines, steamer routes, express and stage systems, banks and post-offices, courts, churches, marts and halls, all come as if at magic call. The school-master is abroad. Public offices and records are in working order. Though the fierce hill Indians now and then attack the miners, they are driven back toward the great citadel of the Sacramento River. The huge mountain ranges on the Oregon border are their last fastnesses.

In every community of the growing State, the law is aided by quickly executed decrees of vigilance committees. Self-appointed popular leaders, crafty politicians, scheming preachers, aspiring editors, and ambitious demagogues crop up. They are the mushroom growth of the muck-heap of the new civilization.

Hardin gathers up with friendships the rising men of all the counties. At the newly formed clubs of the city his regular entertainments are a nucleus of a socio-political organization to advance the ambitious lawyer and the cause of the South.

Men say he looks to the Senate, or the Supreme Bench. Maxime Valois, rising in power at Stockton, retains the warmest confidence of Hardin. He knows the crafty advocate is the arch-priest of Secession. Month by month, he is knitting up the web of his dark intrigues. He would unite the daring sons of the South in one great secret organization, ready to strike when the hour of destiny is at hand. It comes nearer, day by day. Here, in this secret cause of the South, Valois’ heart and soul go out to Hardin. He feels the South was juggled out of California. Both he and his Mephisto are gazing greedily on the wonderful development of the coast. Even adjoining Arizona and New Mexico begin to fill up. The conspirators know the South is handicapped in the irrepressible conflict unless some diversion is made in the West. They must secure for the states of the Southern Republic their aliquot share of the varied treasures of the West. The rich spoil of an unholy war.

Far-seeing and wise is the pupil of Calhoun and Slidell. He is the coadjutor of the subtle Gwin. Hardin feeds the flame of Maxime Valois’ ardor. The business friendship of the men continues unabated. They need each other. With rare delicacy, Valois never refers to the blood-bought “beauty of the El Dorado.” Her graceful form never throws its shadow over the threshold of the luxurious home of the lawyer. On rare visits to the residence of his friend, Valois’ quick eye notes the evidence of a reigning divinity. A piano and a guitar, a scarf here, a few womanly treasures there, are indications of a “manage a deux.” They prove to Maxime that the Egeria of this intellectual king lingers near her victim. He is still under her mystic spell. Breasting the tide of litigation in the United States and State courts, popular and ardent, the Louisianian thrives. He rises into independent manhood. He is toasted in Sacramento, where in legislative halls his fiery eloquence distinguishes him. He is the king of the San Joaquin valley.

Preserving his friendship with the clergy, still warmly allied to Padre Francisco, Maxime Valois gradually gains an unquestioned leadership. His friends at New Orleans are proud of this young pilgrim from “Belle Etoile.” Judge Valois hopes that the coming man will return to Louisiana in search of some bright daughter of that sunny land, a goddess to share the honors of the younger branch of the old Valois family. Rosy dreams!

Maxima, satisfied, yet not happy, sees a great commonwealth grow up around him. Looking under the tides of the political struggles, he can feel the undertow of the future. It seems to drag him back to the old Southern land of his birth, “Home to Dixie.”

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.

CHAPTER IX.

THE STRANGER’S FOOT AT LAGUNITAS. VALOIS’ SPANISH BRIDE.

Through the mines runs a paean of rejoicing. The roads are free; Joaquin is slain at last. Butcher bravos tire of revenging past deeds of blood. They slay the helpless Indians, or assassinate the frightened native Californians. This rude revenge element, stirred up by Harry Love’s exploit, reaches from Klamath to the Colorado. Yet the unsettled interior is destined to keep up the sporadic banditti of the valleys for years. Every glen offers an easy ambush. In the far future only, the telegraph and railway will finally cut up the great State into localized areas of civilization.

All the whiskey-drinking and revolver-carrying bravos must be swept into obscure graves before crime can cease. It becomes, however, occasional only. While bloody hands are ready, the plotting brain of Joaquin Murieta never is equalled by any future bandit.

Coming years bring Francisco Garcia, Sebastian Flores, and the “Los Manilas” gang, whose seventeen years of bloodshed end finally at the gallows of Los Angeles. Varrella and Soto, Tiburcio Vasquez, Santos Lotello, Chavez, and their wild Mexican brothers, are all destined to die by shot or rope.

“Tom Bell,” “Jack Powers,” and other American recruits in the army of villany, have only changed sides in their crimes. All these wretches merit the deaths awaiting them. The last purely international element of discord vanishes from the records of crime.

Wandering Americans aptly learn stage-robbing. They are heirs of the old riders. The glories of “Black Bart,” the lone highwayman of eighty stage-robberies, and the “train robbers,” are reserved for the future. But Black Bart never takes life. He robs only the rich.

Valois appreciates that the day has arrived when legal land spoliation of the Mexicans will succeed these violent quarrels. Nothing is left to steal but their land. That is the object of contention between lawyers, speculators, squatters, and the defenceless owners. Their domains narrow under mortgage, interest, and legal (?) robbery.

“Vae victis!” The days of confiscation follow the conquest.

Hydraulic mining, quartz processes, and corporate effort succeed the earlier mining attempts. Two different forces are now in full energy of action.

Hills are swept bodily into the river-beds, in the search for the underlying gold. Rivers and meadows are filled up, sand covered, and ruined. Forests are thrown down, to rot by wholesale. Tunnels are blasted out. The face of nature is gashed with the quest for gold. Banded together for destruction, the miners leave no useful landmark behind them. All is washed away and sent seaward in the choking river-channels.

The home-makers, in peaceful campaigns of seed-time and harvest, develop new treasures. Great interests are introduced. The gold of field, orchard, and harvest falls into the hands of the industrious farmers. These are the men whose only weapons are scythe and sickle. They are the real Fathers of the Pacific. Roving over the interior, the miners leave a land as nearly ruined as human effort can render it. In the wake of these nugget-hunters, future years bring those who make the abandoned hills lovely with scattered homes. They are now hidden by orchards, vineyards, and gardens. Peaceful flocks and herds prove that the Golden Age of California is not to be these wild days of the barbaric Forty-niner.

Maxime Valois sees the land sweeping in unrivalled beauty to the Colorado. Free to the snowy peaks of the Sacramento, the rich plains roll. He knows that there will be here yet,

“Scattered cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine, With fields which promise corn and wine.”

He realizes that transient California must yield to stable conditions. Some civilized society will succeed the masses as lacking in fibre as a rope of sand. Already the days of roving adventure are over. There are wanderers, gamblers, fugitives, ex-criminals, and outcasts enough within the limits of the new land. Siren and adventuress, women of nameless history and gloomy future, yet abound. They throng the shabby temporary camps or tent cities. He knows there is no self-perpetuation in the mass of men roving in the river valleys. Better men must yet rule.

A visit to San Francisco and other large places proves that the social and commercial element is supplied from the Northern, Eastern, and Middle States. Their professional men will be predominant also.

In the interior, the farmers of the West and the sagacious planters of the South control.

As May-day approaches, Valois, at San Francisco in 1853, sees a procession of growing children. There, thousands of happy young faces of school-children, appear bearing roses in innocent hands.

Philip Hardin gives him the details of the coming struggle of North and South. It is a battle for the coast from Arizona to Oregon. Lost to England, Russia, and France, lost to the Mormons by stupidity or neglect, this West is lost to the South by the defeat of slavery. Industrious farmers come, in fairly equal numbers, from the Northern and Southern agricultural States. The people of the Atlantic free States come with their commerce, capital, and institutions. The fiat of Webster, Clay, and Seward has placed the guardian angel of freedom at the gates and passes of California. The Southerner cannot transfer his human slave capital to the far West. The very winds sing freedom’s song on the wooded heights of the Sierras.

Philip Hardin sighs, as he drains his glass, “Valois, our people have doomed the South to a secondary standing in the Union. This fatal blunder in the West ruins us. Benton and Fremont’s precipitancy thwarted our statesmen. This gold, the votes of these new States, the future commerce, the immense resources of the West, all are cast in the balance against us. We must work for a Western republic. We must wait till we can fight for Southern rights. We will conquer these ocean States. We will have this land yet.”

The legal Mephisto and his pupil are true to the Southern cause. Neither of them can measure the coming forces of Freedom. Rosalie Leese, the pioneer white child of California, born in 1838, at Yerba Buena, was the first of countless thousands of free-born American children. In the unpolluted West the breath of slavery shall never blight a single human existence. Old Captain Richardson and Jacob Leese, pioneers of the magic city of San Francisco, gaze upon the beautiful ranks of smiling school-children, in happy troops. They have no regrets, like the knights of slavery, to see their places in life filled by free-born young pilgrims of life. All hail the native sons and daughters of the Golden West!

But the Southern politicians forge to the front. The majority is still with them. They carry local measures. Their hands are only tied by the admission of California, as a free State. Too late! On the far borders of Missouri, the contest of Freedom and Slavery begins. It excites all America. Bleeding Kansas! Hardin explains that the circle of prominent Southerners, leading ranchers, Federal officials, and officers of the army and navy, are relied on for the future. The South has all the courts. It controls the legislature. It seeks to cast California’s voice against the Union in the event of civil war. As a last resort they will swing it off in a separate sovereignty–a Lone Star of the West.

“We must control here as we did in Texas, Valois. When the storm arises, we will be annexed to the Southern Confederacy.”

Even as he spoke, the generation of the War was ripening for the sickle of Death. Filled with the sectional glories of the Mexican war, Hardin could not doubt the final issue.

“Get land, Valois,” he cries. “Localize yourself. When this State is thrown open to slavery, you will want your natural position. Maxime, you ought to have a thousand field-hands when you are master at Lagunitas. You can grow cotton there.”

Valois muses. He revolves in his mind the “Southern movement.” Is it treason? He does not stop to ask. As he journeys to Stockton he ponders. Philip Hardin is about to accept a place on the Supreme Bench of the State. Not to advance his personal fortunes, but to be useful to his beloved South.

While the banks, business houses and factories are controlled by Northern men: while the pothouse politicians of Eastern cities struggle in ward elections, the South holds all the Federal honors. They govern society, dominate in the legislature and in the courts. They dictate the general superior intercourses of men. The ardent Southrons rule with iron hand. They are as yet only combated by the pens of Northern-born editors, and a few fearless souls who rise above the meekly bowing men of the free States.

All see the approaching downfall of lawless pleasure and vicious license in San Francisco. Slowly the tide of respectable settlement rises. It bears away the scum of vice, swept into the Golden Gates in the first rush. The vile community of escaped convicts and mad adventurers cannot support itself. “The old order changeth, yielding slowly to the new.”

At the head of all public bodies, the gentleman of the South, quick to avenge his personal honor, aims, with formal “code,” and ready pistol, to dragoon all public sentiment. He is sworn to establish the superiority of the cavalier.

The first Mayor of San Francisco, a Congressman elect, gifted editor Edward Gilbert, has already fallen in an affair of honor. The control of public esteem depends largely on prowess in the duelling field. Every politician lives up to the code.

Valois ponders over Hardin’s advice. Averse to routine business, fond of a country life, he decides to localize himself. His funds have increased. His old partner, Joe Woods, is now a man of wealth at Sacramento. Maxime has no faith in quartz mines. He has no desires to invest in ship, or factory. He ignores commerce. To be a planter, a man of mark in the legislature, to revive the glories of the Valois family, is the lawyer’s wish. While he passes the tule-fringed river-banks, fate is leading him back to Lagunitas. He has led a lonely life, this brilliant young Creole. In the unrest of his blood, under the teachings of Hardin, Valois feels the future may bear him away to unfought fields. The grandsons of those who fought at New Orleans, may win victories, as wonderful, over the enemies of that South, even if these foes are brothers born.

Gliding towards his fate, the puppet of the high gods, Maxime Valois may dream of the surrender of Fort Sumter, and of the Southern Cross soaring high in victory. Appomattox is far hidden beyond battle-clouds of fields yet to come! The long road thither has not yet been drenched with the mingled blood of warring brethren. Dreams! Idle dreams! Glory! Ambition! Southern rights!

At Stockton, Valois receives tidings from Padre Francisco. Clouds are settling down on Lagunitas. Squatters arc taking advantage of the defenceless old Mexican. If the Don would save his broad acres, he must appear in the law-courts of the conquerors.

Alas! the good old days are gone, when the whole State of California boasted not a single lawyer. These are new conditions. The train of loyal retainers will never sweep again out of the gates of Lagunitas, headed by the martial Commandante, in all the bravery of rank and office. It is the newer day of gain and greed.

Prospecting miners swarm over Mariposa. The butterflies are driven from rocky knoll and fragrant bower by powder blasts. The woods fall under the ringing axe of the squatter. Ignorant of new laws and strange language; strong only in his rights; weak in years, devoid of friends, Don Miguel’s hope is the sage counsel of Padre Francisco. The latter trusts to Valois’ legal skill.

As adviser, Valois repairs to Lagunitas. Old patents, papers heavy with antique seal and black with stately Spanish flourish, are conned over. Lines are examined, witnesses probed, defensive measures taken.

Maxime sits; catechizes the Don, the anxious Donna Juanita, and the padre. Wandering by the shores of Lagunitas, Valois notes the lovely reflection of the sweet-faced Dolores in the crystal waters. The girl is fair and modest. Fran‡ois Ribaut often wonders if the young man sees the rare beauty of the Spanish maiden. If it would come to pass!

Over his beads, the padre murmurs, “It may be well. All well in time.”

The cause drags on slowly. After months, the famous case of the Lagunitas rancho is fought and won.

But before its last coil has dragged out of the halls of justice, harassed and broken in spirit, Don Miguel closes his eyes upon the ruin of his race. Born to sorrow, Donna Juanita is a mere shade of womanly sorrow. She is not without comfort, for the last of the Peraltas has placed his child’s hand in that of Maxime Valois and whispered his blessing.

“You will be good to my little Dolores, amigo mio,” murmurs the old man. He loves the man whose lance has been couched in his behalf. The man who saved his life and lands.

Padre Francisco is overjoyed. He noted the drawing near of the young hearts. A grateful flash, lighting the shining eyes of Dolores, told the story to Maxime. His defence of her father, his championship of the family cause, his graceful demeanor fill sweet Dolores’ idea of the perfect “caballero.”

The priest with bell, book, and candle, gives all the honors of the Church to the last lord of Lagunitas. Hard by the chapel, the old ranchero rests surrounded by the sighing forest. It is singing the same unvarying song, breathing incense from the altars of nature over the stout soldier’s tomb.

He has fought the fight of his race in vain. When the roses’ leaves drift a second time on the velvet turf, Maxime Valois receives the hand of Dolores from her mother. The union is blessed by the invocation of his priestly friend. It is a simple wedding. Bride and groom are all in all to each other. There are none of the Valois, and not a Peralta to join in merrymaking.

Padre Francisco and Donna Juanita are happy in the knowledge that the shy bird of the mountains is mated with the falcon-eyed Creole. He can defend the lordly heritage of Lagunitas. So, in the rosy summer time, the foot of the stranger passes as master over the threshold of the Don’s home. The superb domain passes under the dominion of the American. One by one the old holdings of the Californian families pass away. The last of the Dons, sleeping in the silence of the tomb, are spared the bitterness of seeing their quaint race die out. The foreigner is ruling within their gates. Their unfortunate, scattered, and doomed children perish in the attrition of a newer civilization.

Narrow-minded, but hospitable; stately and loyal; indifferent to the future, suspicious of foreigners, they are utterly unable to appreciate progress. They are powerless to develop or guard their domains. Abandoned by Mexico, preyed on by squatters, these courtly old rancheros are now a memory of the past.

This wedding brings life to Lagunitas. The new suzerain organizes a working force. It is the transition period of California. Hundreds of thousands of acres only wait for the magic artesian well to smile in plenty. Valois gathers up the reins. Only a few pensioners remain. The nomadic cavalry of the natives has disappeared. The suggestion of “work” sets them “en route.” They drift towards the Mexican border. The flocks and herds are guarded by corps of white attendants. The farm succeeds the ranch.

Maxime Valois gives his wife her first sight of the Queen City. The formalities of receiving the “patent” call him to San Francisco.

Padre Francisco remains with Donna Juanita. The new rule is represented by “Kaintuck,” an energetic frontiersman, whose vast experience in occasional warfare and frequent homicide is a guarantee of finally holding possession. This worthy left all his scruples at home in Kentucky, with his proper appellation. He is a veteran ranger.

As yet the lands yield no regular harvests. The ten-leagues-square tract produces less fruit, garden produce, and edibles, than a ten-acre Pennsylvania field in the Wyoming. But the revenue is large from the cattle and horses. The cattle are as wild as deer. The horses are embodiments of assorted “original sin,” and as agile as mountain goats. Valois knows, however, the income will be ample for general improvements.

His policy matures. He encourages the settlement of Southerners. He rents in subdivisions his spare lands.

The Creole, now a landlord, hears the wails of short-sighted men. They mourn the green summers, the showery months of the East. Moping in idleness, they assert that California will produce neither cereal crops, fruits, nor vegetables. Prophets, indeed! The golden hills look bare and drear to strangers’ eyes. The brown plains please not.

In the great realm, apples, potatoes, wheat, corn, the general cereals and root crops are supposed to be impossible productions. Gold, wild cattle, and wilder mustangs are the returns of El Dorado. Cultivation is in its infancy.

The master departs with the dark-eyed bride. She timidly follows his every wish. Dolores has the education imparted by gentle Padre Francisco. It makes her capable of mentally expanding in the experiences of the first journey. The gentle refinement of her race completes her charms.

To the bride, the steamer, the sights of the bay, crowded with shipping, and the pageantry of the city are dazzling. The luxuries of city life are wonders. Relying on her husband, she glides into her new position. Childishly pleased at the jewels, ornaments, and toilets soon procured in the metropolis, Donna Dolores Valois is soon one of Eve’s true daughters, arrayed like the lily.

Months roll away. The stimulus of a brighter life develops the girl wife into a sweetly radiant woman.

Maxime Valois rejoins Philip Hardin. He is now a judge of the Supreme Court. Stormy days are these of 1855 and the spring of 1856.

Deep professional intrigues busy Valois. Padre Francisco and “Kaintuck” announce the existence of supposed quartz mines on the rancho. Valois will not pause in his occupations to risk explorations.

For the Kansas strife, the warring of sections, and the growing bitterness of free and slave State men make daily life a seething cauldron. Southern settlers are pouring into the interior. They shun the cities. In city and country, squatter wars, over lot and claim, excite the community. San Francisco is a hotbed of politicians and roughs of the baser sort. While the Southerners generally control the Federal and State offices, Hardin feels the weakness in their lines has been the journalistic front of their party. Funds are raised. Pro-slavery journals spring into life. John Nugent, Pen Johnston, and O’Meara write with pens dipped in gall, and the ready pistol at hand. Tumult and fracas disgrace bench, bar, legislature, and general society. The great wars of Senators Gwin and Broderick precede the separation of Northern and Southern Democrats. As the summer of 1856 draws on, corruption, violence, and sectional hatred bitterly divide all citizens. School and Church, journal and law-giver, work for the right. The strain on the community increases. While the coast and interior is dotted with cities and towns, and the Mint pours out floods of ringing gold coins, there is no confidence. Farm and factory, ship and wagon train, new streets, extension of the city and material progress show every advancement. But a great gulf yawns between the human wave of old adventurers, and the home-makers, now sturdily battling for the inevitable victory.

The plough is speeding in a thousand furrows everywhere. Cattle and flocks are being graded and improved. Far-sighted men look to franchise and public association. The day dawns when the giant gaming hells, flaunting palaces of sin, and the violent army of miscreants must be suppressed.

Everywhere, California shows the local irritation between the buccaneers of the first days, and the resolute, respectable citizens. The latter are united in this local cause, though soon to divide politically on the battle-field.

Driven from their lucrative vices of old, the depraved element, at the polls, overawes decency. San Francisco’s long wooden wharves, its precipitous streets, its crowded haunts of the transient, and its flashy places of low amusement harbor a desperate gang. They are renegades, deserters, and scum of every seaport–graduates of all human villany. Aided by demagogues, the rule of the “Roughs” nears its culmination. Fire companies, militia, train bands, and the police, are rotten to the core. In this upheaval, affecting only the larger towns, the higher classes are powerless.

Cut off, by the great plains, from the central government, the State is almost devoid of telegraphs and has but one little railroad. It has hostile Indians yet on its borders. The Chinese come swarming in like rats. The situation of California is critical.

Personal duels and disgraceful quarrels convulse high life. The lower ranks are ruled only by the revolver. The criminal stalks boldly, unpunished, in the streets.

The flavor of Americanism is no leaven to this ill-assorted population. The exciting presidential campaign, in which Fremont leads a new party, excites and divides the better citizens of the commonwealth.

Though the hills are now studded with happy homes and the native children of the Golden West are rising in promise, all is unrest. A local convulsion turns the anger of better elements into the revolution of the Vigilance Committee of 1856. James Casey’s pistol rang out the knell of the “Roughs” when he murdered the fearless editor of the leading journal.

Valois, uninterested in this urban struggle, returns to Lagunitas. His domain rewards his energy.

All is peace by the diamond lake. Senora Dolores, her tutor, Padre Francisco, and the placid Duenna Juanita make up a pleasant home circle. It is brightened by luxuries provided by the new lord. Maxime Valois’ voice is heard through the valleys. He travels in support of James Buchanan, the ante-bellum President. For is not John C. Breckinridge, the darling son of the South, as vice-president also a promise of Southern success?

San Francisco throws off its criminals by a spasmodic effort. The gallows tree has borne its ghastly fruit. Fleeing “Roughs” are self-expatriated. Others are unceremoniously shipped abroad. The Vigilance Committee rules. This threshing out of the chaff gives the State a certain dignity. At least, an effort has been made to purge the community. All in all, good results–though a Judge of the Supreme Court sleeps in a guarded cell as a prisoner of self-elected vindicators of the law.

When the excitement of the presidential election subsides, Maxime Valois joins the banquets of the Democratic victors. The social atmosphere is purer. Progress marks the passing months. The State springs forward toward the second decade of its existence. There is local calm, while the national councils potter over the Pacific railways. Valois knows that the great day of Secession approaches. The Sons of the South will soon raise the banner of the Southern Cross. He knows the purposes of the cabinet, selected by the conspirators who surround Buchanan. Spring sees the great departments of the government given over to those who work for the South. They will arrange government offices, divide the army, scatter the navy, juggle the treasury and prepare for the coming storm. The local bitterness heightens into quarrels over spoils. Judge Philip Hardin, well-versed in the Secession plots, feeds the ever-burning pride of Valois. From Kansas, from court and Congress, from the far East, the murmur of the “irrepressible conflict” grows nearer. Maxime Valois is in correspondence with the head of his family. While at Lagunitas, the Creole pushes on his works of improvement. He dreams at night strange dreams of more brilliant successes. Of a new flag and the triumph of the beloved cause. He will be called as a trusted Southron into the councils of the coast. Will they cut it off under the Lone Star flag? This appeals to his ambition.

There are omens everywhere. The Free-State Democrats must be suppressed. The South must and shall rule.

He often dreams if war and tumult will ever roll, in flame and fire, over the West. The mists of the future veil his eyes. He waits the signal from the South. All over California, the wealth of the land peeps through its surface gilding. There are no clouds yet upon the local future. No burning local questions at issue here, save the aversion of the two sections, distrustful of each other.

It needs only the mad attack of John Brown upon Virginia’s slave-keepers to loose the passions of the dwellers by the Pacific. Martyr or murderer, sage or fanatic, Brown struck the blows which broke the bonds of the brotherhood of the Revolution. From the year 1858, the breach becomes too great to bridge. Secretly, Southern plans are perfected to control the West. While the conspiracy slowly moves on, the haughtiness of private intercourse admits of no peaceable reunion. Active correspondence between officials, cool calculations of future resources, and the elevation to prominent places of men pledged to the South, are the rapid steps of the maturing plans. On the threshold of war.

For the senators, representatives, and agents in Washington confidentially report that the code of honor is needed to restrain the Northerners under personal dragooning. Yankee self-assertion comes at last.

Around the real leaders of thought their vassals are ranged. Davis, Toombs, Breckinridge, Yancey, Pryor, Wigfall, Wise, and others direct. Herbert, Keith, Lamar, Brooks, and a host of cavaliers are ready with trigger and cartel. The tone at Washington gives the keynote to the Californian agents of the Southern Rights movement. There are not enough Potters, Wades, and Landers, as yet. The Northern mind needs time to realize the deliberation of Secession.

The great leaders of the free States are dead or in the gloomy retirement of age. Webster and Clay are no more. There are yet men of might to fight under the banners streaming with the northern lights of freedom. Douglas, Bell, Sumner, Seward, and Wade are drawing together. Grave-faced Abraham Lincoln moves out of the background of Western woods into the sunrise glow of Liberty’s brightest day.

On the Pacific coast, restraint has never availed. Here, ancestry and rank go for naught. Here, men meet without class pride. The struggle is more equal.

California’s Senator, David C. Broderick, was the son of an humble New York stone-cutter. He grapples with his wily colleague, Senator Gwin.

It is hammer against rapier. Richard and Saladin. Beneath the banners of the chieftains the free lances of the Pacific range themselves. Neither doubts the courage of the opposing forces. The blood of the South has already followed William Walker, the gray-eyed man of destiny, to Sonora and Nicaragua. They were a splendid band of modern buccaneers. Henry A. Crabbe found that the Mexican escopetas are deadly in the hands of the maddened inhabitants of Arispe. Raousset de Boulbon sees his Southern followers fall under machete and revolver in northern Mexico. The Southern filibusters are superbly reckless. All are eager to repeat the glories of Texas and Mexico. They find that the Spanish races of Central America have learned bitter lessons from the loss of Texas. They know of the brutal conquest of California. The cry of “Muerte los Americanos!” rings from Tucson to Darien. The labors of conquest are harder now for the self-elected generalissimos of these robber bands. “Extension of territory” is a diplomatic euphemism for organized descents of desperate murderers. The wholesome lessons of the slaughter in Sonora, the piles of heads at Arispe, and the crowded graves of Rivas and Castillo, with the executions in Cuba, prove to the ambitious Southrons that they will receive from the Latins a “bloody welcome to hospitable graves.”

As the days glide into weeks and months, the thirst for blood of the martial generation overcrowding the South is manifest. On the threshold of grave events the leaders of Southern Rights restrain further foreign attempts. The chivalry is now needed at home. Foiled in Cuba and Central America, restrained by the general government from a new aggressive movement on Mexico, they decide to turn their faces to the North. They will carve out a new boundary line for slavery.

The natural treasury of the country is an object of especial interest. To break away peaceably is hardly possible. But slavery needs more ground for the increasing blacks. It must be toward the Pacific that the new Confederacy will gain ground. Gold, sea frontage, Asiatic trade, forests and fisheries,–all these must come to the South. It is the final acquisition of California. It was APPARENTLY for the Union, but REALLY for the South, that the complacent Polk pounced upon California. He waged a slyly prepared war on Mexico for slavery.

As the restraints of courtesy and fairness are thrown off at Washington, sectional hostilities sweep over to the Western coast. The bitterness becomes intense. Pressing to the front, champions of both North and South meet in private encounters. They admit of neither evasion nor retreat.

Maxime Valois is ready to shed his blood for the land of the palmetto. But he will not degrade himself by low intrigue or vulgar encounter.

He learns without regret of the extinction of the filibusters in Sonora, on the Mexican coast, Cuba, and Central America. He knows it is mad piracy.

Valois sorrows not when William Walker’s blood slakes the stones of the plaza at Truxillo. A consummation devoutly to be wished.

It is for the whole South he would battle. It is the glorious half of the greatest land on the globe. For HER great rights, under HER banner, for State sovereignty he would die. On some worthy field, he would lead the dauntless riflemen of Louisiana into the crater of death.

THERE, would be the patriot’s pride and the soldier’s guerdon of valor. He would be in the van of such an uprising. He scorns to be a petty buccaneer, a butcher of half-armed natives, a rover and a robber. In every scene, through the days of 1859, Valois bears himself as a cavalier. Personal feud was not his object.

In the prominence of his high position, Valois travels the State. He confers with the secret councils at San Francisco. He is ready to lead in his regions when needed. The dark cabal of Secession sends out trusty secret agents, even as Gillespie and Larkin called forth the puppets of Polk, Buchanan and Marcy to action. Valois hopes his friends can seize California for the South. Fenced off from Oregon and the East by the Sierras, there is the open connection with the South by Arizona.

A few regiments of Texan horse can hold this great gold-field for the South. Valois deems it impossible for California to be recaptured if once won. He knows that Southern agents are ready to stir up the great tribes of the plains against the Yankees. The last great force, the United States Navy, is to be removed. Philip Hardin tells him how the best ships of the navy are being dismantled, or ordered away to foreign stations. Great frigates are laid up in Southern navy-yards. Ordnance supplies and material are pushed toward the Gulf. Appropriations are expended to aid these plans. The leaders of the army, now scattered under Southern commanders, are ready to turn over to the South the whole available national material of war. Never dreaming of aught but success, Valois fears only that he may be assigned to Western duties. This will keep him from the triumphal marches over the North. He may miss the glories of that day when Robert Toombs calls the roll of his blacks at Bunker Hill Monument. In the prime of life and vigor of mind, he is rich. He has now a tiny girl child, gladdening sweet Senora Dolores. His domain blossoms like the rose. Valois has many things to tie him to San Joaquin. His princely possessions alone would satisfy any man. But he would leave all this to ride with the Southern hosts in their great northward march. Dolores sits often lonely now, on the porch of the baronial residence which has grown up around the Don’s old adobe mansion. Her patient mother lies under the roses, by the side of Don Miguel.

Padre Francisco, wearied of the mental death in life of these lonely hills, has delayed his return to France only by the appeals of Maxime Valois. He wants a friend at Lagunitas if he takes the field. If he should be called East, who would watch over his wife and child? Fran‡ois Ribaut, a true Frenchan at heart, looks forward to some quiet cloister, where he can see once more the twin towers of Notre Dame. The golden dome of the Invalides calls him back. He sadly realizes that his life has been uselessly wasted. The Indians are either cut off, chased away, or victims of fatal diseases. The Mexicans have fallen to low estate. Their numbers are trifling. He has no flock. He is only a lonely shepherd. With the Americans his gentle words avail nothing. The Catholics of the cities have brought a newer Church hierarchy with them. “Home to France,” is his longing now.

In the interior, quarrels bring about frequent personal encounters between political disputants. The Northern sympathizers, stung by jeer, and pushed to the wall, take up their weapons and stand firm–a new fire in their eyes. The bravos of slavery meet fearless adversaries. In the cities, the wave of political bitterness drowns all friendly impulses. Every public man takes his life in his hand. The wars of Broderick and Gwin, Field and Terry, convulse the State. Lashed into imprudence by each other’s attacks, David C. Broderick and David S. Terry look into each other’s pistols. They stand face to face in the little valley by Merced Lake. Sturdy Colton, and warm-hearted Joe McKibbin, second the fearless Broderick. Hayes and the chivalric Calhoun Benham are the aids of the lion-hearted Terry. It is a meeting of giants. Resolution against deadly nerve. Brave even to rashness, both of them know it is the first blood of the fight between South and North. Benham does well as, with theatrical flourish, he casts Terry’s money on the sod. The grass is soon to be stained with the blood of a leader. This is no mere money quarrel. It is a duel to the death; a calm assertion of the fact that neither in fray, in the forum, nor on the battle-field, will the North go back one inch. It is high time.

Broderick, the peer of his superb antagonist, knows that the pretext of Terry’s challenge is a mere excuse. It is first blood in the inevitable struggle for the western coast. With no delay, the stout-hearted champions, friends once, stand as foes in conflict. David Terry’s ball cuts the heart-strings of a man who had been his loving political brother. His personal friend once and a gallant comrade. Broderick’s blood marks the fatal turning-off of the Northern Democrats from their Southern brothers. As Terry lowers his pistol, looking unpityingly at the fallen giant, he does not realize he has cut the cords tying the West to the South. It was a fatal deed, this brother’s murder. It was the mistake of a life, hitherto high in purpose. The implacable Terry would have shuddered could he have looked over the veiled mysteries of thirty years to come. It was beyond human ken. Even he might have blenched at the strange life-path fate would lead him over. Over battle-fields where the Southern Cross rises and falls like Mokanna’s banner, back across deserts, to die under the deadly aim of an obscure minion of the government he sought to pull down. After thirty years, David S. Terry, judge, general, and champion of the South, was destined to die at the feet of his brother-judge, whose pathway inclined Northwardly from that ill-starred moment.

Maxime Valois saw in the monster memorial meeting on the plaza, that the cause of the South was doomed in the West. While Baker’s silver voice rises in eulogy over Broderick, the Louisianian sees a menace in the stern faces of twenty thousand listeners. The shade of the murdered mechanic-senator hovers at their local feast, a royal Banquo, shadowy father of political kings yet to be.

The clarion press assail the awful deed. Boldly, the opponents of slavery draw out in the community. There is henceforth no room for treason on the Western coast. Only covert conspiracy can neutralize the popular wave following Broderick’s death. Dissension rages until the fever of the Lincoln campaign excites the entire community. The pony express flying eastward, the rapidly approaching telegraph, the southern overland mail with the other line across the plains, bring the news of Eastern excitement. Election battles, Southern menace, and the tidings of the triumph of Republican principles, reach the Pacific. Abraham Lincoln is the elected President.

Valois is heavy-hearted when he learns of the victory of freedom at the polls. He would be glad of some broad question on which to base the coming war. His brow is grave, as he realizes the South must now bring on at moral disadvantage the conflict. The war will decide the fate of slavery. Broderick’s untimely death and the crushing defeat of the elections are bad omens. It is with shame he learns of the carefully laid plots to seduce leading officers of the army and navy. The South must bribe over officials, and locate government property for the use of the conspirators. It labors with intrigue and darkness, to prepare for what he feels should be a gallant defiance. It should be only a solemn appeal to the god of battles.

He sadly arranges his personal affairs, to meet the separations of the future. He sits with his lovely, graceful consort, on the banks of Lagunitas. He is only waiting the throwing-off of the disguise which hides the pirate gun-ports of the cruiser, Southern Rights. The hour comes before the roses bloom twice over dead Broderick, on the stately slopes of Lone Mountain.

BOOK III

GOING HOME TO DIXIE: STARS AND STRIPES, OR STARS AND BARS?

CHAPTER X

A LITTLE DINNER AT JUDGE HARDIN’S.–THE KNIGHTS OF THE GOLDEN CIRCLE.

The rain drips drearily around Judge Hardin’s spacious residence in San Francisco. January, 1861, finds the sheltering trees higher. The embowered shade hides to-night an unusual illumination. Winter breezes sigh through the trees. Showers of spray fall from acacia and vine. As the wet fog drives past, the ship-lights on the bay are almost hidden. When darkness brings out sweeping lines of the street-lamps, many carriages roll up to the open doors.

A circle of twenty or thirty intimates gathers in the great dining-room. At the head of the table, Hardin welcomes the chosen representatives of the great Southern conspiracy in the West. His residence, rarely thrown open to the public, has grown with the rise of his fortunes. Philip Hardin must be first in every attribute of a leading judge and publicist. Lights burn late here since the great election of 1860. Men who are at the helm of finance, politics, and Federal power are visitors. Editors and trusted Southrons drop in, by twos and threes, secretly. There is unwonted social activity.

The idle gossips are silent. These visitors are all men, unaccompanied by their families. Woman’s foot never crosses this threshold. In the wings of the mansion, a lovely face is sometimes seen at a window. It is a reminder of the stories of that concealed beauty who has reigned years in the mansion on the hill.

Is it a marriage impending? Is it some great scheme? Some new monetary institution to be launched?

These vain queries remain unanswered. There is a mystic password given before joining the feast. Southerners, tried and true, are the diners. Maxime Valois sits opposite his associate. It is not only a hospitable welcome the Judge extends, but the mystic embrace of the Knights of the Golden Circle. In feast and personal enjoyment the moments fly by. The table glitters with superb plate. It is loaded with richest wines and the dainties of the fruitful West. The board rings under emphatic blows of men who toast, with emphasis, the “Sunny South.” In their flowing cups, old and new friends are remembered. There is not one glass raised to the honor of the starry flag which yet streams out boldly at the Golden Gate.

The feast is of conspirators who are sworn to drag that flag at their horses’ heels in triumph. Men nurtured under it.

Judge Hardin gives the signal of departure for the main hall. In an hour or so they are joined by others who could not attend the feast.

The meeting of the Knights of the Golden Circle proceeds with mystic ceremony. The windows, doors, and avenues are guarded. In the grounds faithful brothers watch for any sneaking spy. Every man is heavily armed. It would be short shrift to the foe who stumbles on this meeting of deadly import.

It is the supreme moment to impart the last orders of the Southern leaders. The Washington chiefs assign the duties of each, in view of the violent rupture which will follow Lincoln’s inauguration.

Fifty or sixty in number, these brave and desperate souls are ready to cast all in jeopardy. Life, fortune, and fame. They represent every city and county of California.

Hardin, high priest of this awful propaganda, opens the business of the session with a cool statement of facts. Every man is now sworn and under obligation to the work. Hardin’s eye kindles as he sees these brothers of the Southern Cross. Each of them has a dozen friends or subordinates under him. To them these tidings will be only divulged under the awful seal of the death penalty. There are scores of army and navy officers with high civil officials on the coast whose finely drawn scruples will keep them out until the first gun is fired, Then these powerful allies, freed by resignation, can come in. They are holding places of power and immense importance to the last. The Knights are wealthy, powerful, and desperate.

As Valois hears Hardin’s address, he appreciates the labor of years, in weaving the network which is to hold California, Arizona, and New Mexico for the South. Utah and Nevada are untenanted deserts. The Mormon regions are neutral and only useful as a geographical barrier to Eastern forces. Oregon and Washington are to be ignored. There the hardy woodsmen and rugged settlers represent the ingrained “freedom worship” of the Northwest. They are farmers and lumbermen. All acknowledge it useless to tempt them out of the fold. Oregon’s star gleams now firmly fixed in the banner of Columbia. And the great Sierras fence them off.

The speaker announces that each member of the present circle will be authorized, on returning, to organize and extend the circles of the Order. Notification of matters of moment will be made by qualified members, from circle to circle. Thus, orders will pass quickly over the State. The momentous secrets cannot be trusted to mail, express, or the local telegraphs.

Hardin calls up member after member, to give their views. The general plan is discussed by the circle. Keen-eyed secretaries note and arrange opinions and remarks.

Hardin announces that all arrangements are made to use all initiated members going East as bearers of despatches. They are available for special interviews, with the brothers who are in every large Northern city and even in the principal centres of Europe.

Ample funds have been forthcoming from the liberal leaders of the local movement. Millions are already promised by the branches at the East.

Wild cheers hail Judge Hardin’s address. He outlines the policy, so artfully laid out, for the cut-off Western contingent. In foaming wine, the fearless coterie pledges the South till the rafters ring again. The “Bonnie Blue Flag” rings out, as it does in many Western households, with “Dixie’s” thrilling strains.

The summing up of Hardin is concise: “We are to hold this State until we have orders to open hostilities. Our numbers must not be reduced by volunteers going East. Our presence will keep the Yankee troops from going East. We want the gold of the mines here, to sustain our finances. We have as commanding General, Albert Sidney Johnston, the ideal soldier of America, who will command the Mississippi. Lee, Beauregard, and Joe Johnston will operate in the East. The fight will be along the border lines. We will capture Washington, and seize New York and Philadelphia. A grand Southern army will march from Richmond to Boston. Another from Nashville to Cincinnati and Chicago. Johnston will hold on here, until forced to resign. Many officers go with him. We shall know of this, and throw ourselves on the arsenals and forts here, capturing the stores and batteries. The militia and independent companies will come over to us at once. With Judge Downey, a Democratic governor, no levies will be called out against us. The navy is all away, or in our secret control. Once in possession of this State, we will fortify the Sierra Nevada passes. We are prepared. Congress has given us $600,000 a year to keep up the Southern overland mail route. It runs through slave-holding territory to Arizona. Every station and relay has been laid out to suit us. We will have trusty friends and supplies, clear through Arizona and over the Colorado. At the outbreak, we will seize the whole system. It is the shortest and safest line.”

Hardin, lauding the skilful plans of a complacent Cabinet officer, did not know that the Southern idea was to connect Memphis direct with Los Angeles.

It was loyal John Butterfield of New York, who artfully bid for a DOUBLE service from Memphis and St. Louis, uniting at Fort Smith, Arkansas, and virtually defeated this sly move of slavery.

Judge Hardin, pausing in pride, could not foresee that Daniel Butterfield, the gallant son of a loyal sire, would meet the chivalry of the South as the Marshal of the greatest field of modern times–awful Gettysburg!

While Hardin plotted in the West, Daniel Butterfield in the East personally laid out every detail of this great service, so as to checkmate the Southern design, were the Mississippi given over to loyal control.

The afterwork of Farragut and Porter paralyzed the Southern line of advance; and on the Peninsula, at Fredericksburg, at Resaca and Chancellorsville, Major-General Daniel Butterfield met in arms many of the men who listened to Hardin’s gibes as to the outwitted Yankee mail contractors.

Hardin, complacent, and with no vision of the awful fields to come, secure in his well-laid plans, resumes:

“Thus aided through Arizona we will admit a strong column of Texan dragoons. We shall take Fort Yuma, Fort Mojave, and the forts in Arizona, as well as Forts Union and Craig in New Mexico. We will then be able to control the northern overland road. We will hold