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ONE of my first acquaintances made in the Angelic city was Doctor--, a most noted character in his day, and he forcibly verified the old adage that "every dog has his day." The Doctor came to California as hospital steward in Stephenson's Pioneer Regiment, which, I am inclined to believe, was the Esculapian fountain from which the learned Doctor drew his first draughts of medical wisdom. The renowned Doctor was a "most useful man," to quote the language of our lamented local historian, and filled many important offices in his day, among which were those of Deputy Sheriff, Constable, Court Interpreter, Notary Public, Town-Crier, Auctioneer, Representative to the State Legislature, and Postmaster. The Doctor first distinguished himself as a local Democratic politician, and made himself prominent, and this is how it was:

In the Presidential canvass of 1852, the two parties, Whig and Democrat, were warmly arrayed one against the other. The Democratic outlook was good, except in one particular precinct, that of Jurupa--and it is here proper to say that Los Angeles County at that time embraced all the territory of San Bernardino, the division having been made in 1854. Old Louis Roubideaux was the lord of Jurupa, that is, he owned and occupied the Jurupa Rancho, and he was a Whig, and could not be won over in any way. The case seemed hopeless,

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and the doctor was sent out with his saddle-bags full of Democratic tickets to act as a forlorn hope in the cause of the General who threw his horse over his head. Then and there was where the transcendent genius of the embryo politican cropped out. About half way from Jurupa, which was then a military post, to San Bernardino, was situated the most beautiful little settlement I ever saw. It was called "Agua Mansa," meaning gentle water, and was composed entirely of immigrants from New Mexico, numbering some 200 souls--simple, good souls they were, too, primitive in their style of living, kind and hospitable to strangers, rich in all that went to make people happy and content, never having been, up to that time, vexed by the unceremonious calls of the Tax Collector, owing allegiance to none save the simple, kind-hearted old priest who looked after their spiritual welfare, with peace and plenty surrounding them, the good people of Agua Mansa went to make as contented and happy a people as could be found in the universe. In the winter of 1862 a flood in the Santa Ana river swept away their houses, gardens, orchards, vineyards, in fact all of their splendid agricultural lands, leaving nothing save a hideous plain of black boulders and cobble-stones to mark the place where once stood this modern, miniature Eden, which I would fain describe.

There must have been at least fifty voters at Agua Mansa, which had been designated as the voting place for the Jurupa precinct, and to this place hied the noble Doctor as the avant courier of American civilization, to give this primitive people their first lesson in the mysteries of American citizenship.

The doctor was a New Yorker, and may have had past experience in the management of elections. In this instance, he not only proved himself an adept, but a perfect master of the business. Arriving at Agua Mansa, he dismounted, tied his hungry mustang, divested himself of his leather Mexican leggins and jingling spurs, and with the sacred saddle-bags on his arm,

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with solemn step and downcast eyes, he bent his way to the little adobe church that stood on a mound in the center of the quiet village. Arriving at the door he piously uncovered, reverently crossed himself, entered and prostrated himself in front of the humble altar, and was then and there discovered by the simple old priest, who sprinkled him with holy water and offered him sweet words of consolation. Within the next hour the Doctor informed the priest that his piety (the priest's, not the Doctor's) had a world-wide fame, that in the distant land of New York the sacred name of Friar Juan, of Agua Mansa, was a household word among all good Catholics, and he, the Doctor had made a pilgrimage hither to invoke the prayers of the saintly Juan for the repose of the soul of his mother, (the Doctor's mother, not the priest's,) at which period the Doctor slipped a "slug" into the palm of the astonished Juan.

Suffice it to say that prayers and masses were the order of the day, and on the following morning, at the breakfast table, the Doctor informed the priest that an election would be held on that day for President of the United States; that one candidate, General Scott, was a great heretic, and was the tyrant who made war on the Catholics of Mexico; and that it would be a great calamity to the Catholic world should Scott be elected; that Pierce, the other candidate, was a good Catholic, and if elected, would build Catholic churches all over the world, and that it therefore behooved them, as good Catholics, to see that Agua Mansa cast its vote for Pierce. And Agua Mansa did, under the pious instructions of the saintly Juan, subject to the satanic Doctor, vote early and all day for the Democratic candidate, to the great chagrin of old Louis Roubideaux, who felt for the first time that he had lost his influence with the gentle people of Agua Mansa.

Los Angeles--with all its repute as a place of strife and turmoil, the abode of chivalry, the hot-bed of red-handed ruffianism, a place where every man carried his code strapped to his

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posterior, where street brawls were the order of the day, where all difficulties were settled on the spot, then and there, with bowie knife or revolver--was not, strange to say, save in one instance, to witness a conflict face to face, man to man, according to the code of honor. Only one duel was ever fought in Los Angeles. Only one duel was ever fought in Illinois, and probably for the same reasons. The terrible results of the two duels, the one fought in the Sucker State and the one fought in this angelic burgh, were so horrible in their endings as to deter all future duelistic aspirants from a conflict on the ensanguined field of honor. The only duel ever fought in Illinois was in effect as follows:

The two principals met, and one was killed. The survivor was tried, convicted and hung for murder. The respective seconds were convicted and sentenced to hard labor in the State penitentiary, and, although the Governor was petitioned to pardon or reprieve both the principals and seconds, he proved obdurate, and the seconds served their time out in the penitentiary, and in penal servitude expiated their offence, as did the surviving principal expiate his on the gallows. Thereafter dueling in Illinois became unfashionable, and aspirants for such honors gave that State a wide berth.

The subject of this sketch was one of the participants in this most horrible duel, which I am now going to relate. It occurred in 1852, the valiant Doctor being the challenging party, and John Bankhead Magruder, then Colonel of the Third Artillery, commanding at San Diego, the party challenged. The horrible affair occurred in this wise:

Magruder paid Los Angeles a visit, and the prominent citizens hereof gave the distinguished visitor a public dinner. The Doctor was a most prominent citizen. Magruder loved wine; Magruder also loved women, so it was said. No women, however, were present at the dinner, but wine flowed as wine had never flowed before. The company became exhilarated,

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conversation became general, and finally the question of great men came up and was generally discussed. Wheeler said that Henry Clay was the greatest of American statesmen. G. Thompson Burrill said that Daniel Webster was the greatest man the world ever produced. Magruder said "Old Hickory Jackson was the greatest man who ever trod shoe-leather." The Doctor said: "My father, who was Sheriff of Cayuga County, N.Y., was the greatest of all Americans." Magruder indignantly looked up, and said that the Doctor "was a d--d fool." A challenge followed; it was accepted, to be settled on the spot, i.e., in the 10X20 dining room of Harry Monroe's restaurant, on Commercial street; distance, from end to end of the table; weapons, derringer pistols. Wilson Jones, the Doctor's second, got the word, and the principals, without shaking hands, took their respective stations, the majestic form of Magruder towering above that of the diminutive Doctor, who paled and shuddered when brought face to face with the grim-visaged son of Mars. All was suspense. The word was to be: Ready! fire! One, two, three! At the word "ready," to the dismay of all, the Doctor blazed away. When the smoke cleared away, to the horror of the valiant disciple of Esculapius, his antagonist stood as stiff and defiant as an avenging demon. The Doctor quailed; Magruder glared savagely on him for a full minute. The spectators, spell-bound, looked on with horrible forebodings. Magruder took two "side steps to the right," which brought him clear of the end of the table. He then advanced the "right foot full to the front," with his glaring eye-balls bent fiercely on the now terrified Doctor. He then brought the left foot up to the rear of the right heel, and leveled his derringer at the ghastly face of the trembling Doctor. Then he advanced the right foot as before, and in this way, with firm and unrelenting tread, he slowly advanced on the now thoroughly frightened Doctor, who made a movement toward the door. The spectators interposed, and cut off the possibility of retreat in that

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direction. The Doctor tried to flank the Colonel by skirmishing around the table. Magruder faced to the left, as though moving on a pivot, and kept the direful derringer aimed directly at the Doctor's pallid countenance. In the excitement the Doctor ran under the table, crawled through, grasped the knees of the irate hero, and affectionately embracing them, said:

"Colonel Magruder, for the love of God, spare me for my family."

The Colonel gave him a kick, and said:

"D--n you! I'll spare you for the hangman."

And so ended this remarkable duel, which would have ended in "murder most foul" only the derringers aforesaid where then and there only loaded with powder and bottle corks, a circumstance only known at the time to the respective seconds.

Magruder deservedly became one of the heavy guns of the war between the States. The Doctor shuffled off this mortal coil somewhere about 1868. Magruder has fired his last shot, and most of the witnesses to that first and last duel in this city of fair name and former evil repute have gone "to the last bourne"--have handed in their mortal checks.

Several scions of chivalry have at various times tried to get up affairs of honor in this city, but when reminded of the horrible fate that befel "the most useful man," their courage failed and they could never be brought to the scratch.

"The most useful man" cast a halo of disgust over the sacred code of honor, and ever since, in Los Angeles, dueling has been regarded as odious and highly dangerous to one's honor.

"The Doctor often acted as Deputy Sheriff," so says the lamented historian. He was once elected Town Constable, so this pious writer avers, and further alleges, that the renowned subject of this sketch was a natural born bailiff. When armed with an execution, he invariably found something to levy on,

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and woe be to the judgment debtor when the Doctor got after him with the writ.

He could not draw blood out of a turnip, but he could get money out of the most impecunious. He used to play all kinds of "roots" in getting a turn on a man against whom he held the righteous writ. He has been known to treat his victim every day for a month, and cajole him in every conceivable way, until he would thoughtlessly plank down an eight-square slug, and the long fingers of the Doctor would go for it.

"I levy on that," he would say, and away would go the poor devil's coin.

"The most useful man" has been known to hide under the end of a counter a week, waiting for a victim to lay a piece of gold on the counter, and then would come the, "I levy on that." Oh, he was born to be a bailiff, was this "most useful man."

One more anecdote of "the most useful man," and I will hand him over to some future historian who can do full justice to his many and transcendant virtues. About December, 1852, there occurred a most wonderful lawsuit in Los Angeles, in which the Doctor played a prominent part in his ministerial capacity of Constable. The suit occupied our Justice's Court for some two or three weeks; no jury could agree; trial after trial with the same result. The case might be found on the old docket of Thompson Burrill, and would probably read thus:

"Juan Largo vs. Juan Chapo--Suit in Replevin. Subject, a lank old mustang."

Juan Largo was owner in fee simple of many thousands of broad and fertile acres. Juan Largo was the owner of cattle on a thousand hills; he was also the happy possessor of thousands of first-class mustangs. Juan Largo was rich, powerful and happy. Juan Largo was a chief. Juan Chapo was a poor, impecunious manipulator of monte cards, always flat broke; always ready to "watch the game" for the more

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fortunate of the fraternity; always asking for a "cow," and sometimes borrowing a "stake" with which to play a small game of "short cards;" was a regular "bucker," but never known to make a "tap." Juan Chapo was poor. Of this world's goods he was devoid, save and except one poor, lean, lank, barrel-headed, slab-sided, ewe-necked, sway-backed, flat-footed, bob- tailed mustang, which he was wont to bestride, and, with huge, jingling Mexican spurs, cavort around the Plaza and up and down Main street, imagining himself to be the envy of scowling Dons and the admired of all the senoras and senoritas in the city so famed for the beauty of its ladies. That lank apology for a horse was the sum total of the worldly wealth of poor Juan Chapo. Strange to say, that miserable mustang was coveted by the lordly Juan Largo, who explained by saying: "The value of the horse to me is as chaff, but there are family traditions connected with that horse that makes him dear to my heart. He has been stolen; he bears my brand and I am bound to have him." Hence the suit in replevin. Strange, that the great chief in his wisdom failed to bethink him that the impecunious Chapo would have been more than willing to part with this relic of barbarism for the paltry consideration of about $12.50. However, the mighty Largo had assumed his war paint, and his voice was for war. The main difficulty in the suit was in determining the brand, the particular brand belonging and appertaining to Juan Largo; for, be it known, that lank Mexican mustang was covered with brands on his hind quarters and his fore quarters, brands on the top of brands, and had evidently been in the possession of all the Hidalgos from the time of the glorious Conquistador down to the time of the humble Juan Chapo, whose brand had not been burned into the frizzled and fried hide of the poor brute, for the reason only that Juan Chapo was too poor to own a brand, and had not bethought him to borrow one. One jury failed to agree and was discharged; another was

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impaneled and sworn. This jury insisted on having the beast shaved in order that the brand might be more easily discovered. A requisition was accordingly made on the tonsorial skill of Peter Biggs, who, in the presence of the Court, Jury and congregated crowd of gamblers and hard cases, proceeded to denude the horrid creature of every hair, from his jaw- bones to the root of his tail, leaving him as sleek and smooth as the hairless dog Dona Concha. The Jury viewed the shorn monster and were more mystified than ever. There were too many brands. Where dim outlines of Juan Largo's brand could be traced, a half-dozen others would traverse it in all possible directions. This Jury failed to agree. Another was drummed up and mustered in, one of whom bethought him of a great expert in brands, and if Juan Largo's brand had ever been burned into the hide of that horrible horse, then Don Jose, the expert, could explain and discern it. Don Jose, who dwelt beyond the Santa Ana, was accordingly sent for. In the meantime the jury gravely discussed the momentous question. This was an "intelligent jury;" so said the Court. It was a mixed jury, so far as color and nationality went; so says the author. A very intelligent idea entered the twelve wise heads, in form and effect as follows:

They procured the services of a draughtsman and some transparent tracing paper, which was applied to the side of the astonished bronco, and a traced copy of the manifold and many brands was obtained, and spread out on the table in front of the Court and jury for Don Jose's inspection when he should arrive, it being deemed advisable for him to first pass upon the brands before seeing the horse. In due time the Don put in an appearance, only too proud to be regarded as so great an expert. The trace of the brands was spread out before him, and he was requested to explain.

He examined it in many ways; he viewed it from a front position; took an oblique squint at it; closed one eye and saw

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it; he examined it first one side up and then the other side. One irreverent juror was about to suggest that he had better stand on his head and look at it. An outsider said he had better put a wet blanket over his head and see it that way.

The Court finally addressed itself to the great expert, and said:

"Well, Don Jose, what do you make out of that?"

"Quien sabe," was the reply. "It greatly resembles the map of Sonora."

This jury also failed to agree, but the suit was not yet at an end. Another jury was ordered. In the meantime it was agreed between our esteemed old friend, Judge Myron Norton, who was counsel for the impecunious Chapo, and the lordly Juan Largo, that the controversy should be settled by "gage of billiards," and that the game should be played by the Judge and Largo himself. The author has no hesitation in saying that that game of billiards, played in the "El Dorado" of revered memory, was witnessed with greater interest than was ever before given to a game of equal importance. The game was long, well played, and every shot delivered with all the cool calculation demanded by the great stake played for. Every available space not required by the contestants was occupied by the eager and excited spectators; the house was crowded to suffocation; anxious faces peered in at the windows; sharp eyes peeped through every crink and cranny of the frail house. The tall looked over the shoulders of the low in stature, and for three days the game went on. Hughes' bottles were filled, refilled, and again emptied; demijons were squeezed, and Hughes sent out for a further supply, when all at once an immense cheer went up that shook the plaza like an earthquake. Myron Norton had won the game. The mustang was poor Juan Chapo's.

Norton was triumphantly raised on the shoulders of his friends; Juan Largo was carried out on a raw-hide. Cheer upon

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cheer went up for Norton, and Juan Chapo and the angels went on a general bust for the night. Imagine, then, the consternation of the enraged multitude when it was announced on the following day that the recreant Largo refused to abide by the result of the game of billiards, and still laid claim to the poor horse, and still pressed his suit before Judge Thompson Burrill. Judge Norton vituperated; poor Chapo swore in both English and Spanish; and the hard cases spoke in terms by no means complimentary to the lordly Juan Largo.

A new jury had been impaneled and sworn, and the gay and chivalrous Norton, and the now grim-visaged little Juan Chapo, posted on his left and rear, again came to the legal scratch. For two more wearisome days the contest waxed warm for the possession of the poor tormented mustang. The case went to the jury who were out all night (on a bust), and on the opening of Court in the morning came in with a verdict for the now exultant Juan Largo. Juan Chapo consoled himself by saying: "Well, I've lost my horse, but old Largo has to pay the costs." which was really the case, being a suit in replevin, surety for the costs had been duly filed, and oh! horror of horrors! that bill of costs! They knew then how to tax the costs, not quite so well as now, but still they knew how to pile them up in those early days of litigation, and the Doctor knew how to collect them. He and Thompson had caught a fat goose and they knew how to pluck him, and pluck him they did without mercy. The lordly Juan Largo had won a costly victory. The costs amounted to more than $3,000.

During the long and wearisome trial before the last jury, the punctilious Court, now grown impatient, fined a delinquent juror $20 for contempt. Change was so scarce at the time, that it was quite impossible to change a $50 piece, so the juror defiantly flung a slug on the table and said, "change that if you can, and take your fine," feeling confident the Court would be unable to break the coin.

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"I levy on that," said the Doctor, pouncing upon the slug, to the surprise and consternation of the discomfited and now thoroughly subdued arbiter of justice.

Oh! he was the very prince of bailiffs, was that "most useful man."

To the mind of an American patriot the two most important events in California pioneer history was the raising of the first American flag at Monterey and the admission of the State in the social circle of the Union, and the reception of the news of that important act of September 9th, 1850. Next in importance, politically, was the first vote cast in California for President of the United States, as aforesaid; and the transmission of the electoral vote to Washington will, in this chapter of truthful history, be the subject of a reminiscent sketch of a pioneer of ponderous political proportions. But, first, I must tell something about the first flag and the first flag staff at Monterey. The world gives Fremont the credit of planting that historical pole and nailing thereto the flag of our country. The world in this instance is mistaken. That eminent but modest soldier and patriot, General George Stoneman, is the man in question.

There must have been an immense number of people engaged in raising that original Monterey flag, as, within the last fifteen years I've known at least five hundred persons who claimed the honor individually and non- collectively, the last of whom is Captain Lewis G. Green, the colored janitor of the Los Angeles Court House. Strange it is, but true, I have never known a man to claim the honor of firing cannon at San Francisco and Sacramento or any other place on the reception of the admission news, though a great amount of gunpowder was burnt in honor of that event. The joyful announcement reached Sacramento during the night. About the middle of October, 1850, before daylight, a cannon was, I believe, brought in from Sutter's Fort, ran into position at the foot of J street, and

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commencing at the exact minute of sunrise fired a national salute. Having just come down from the Deer Creek gold washings, our party was encamped under the historical live oak on the levee opposite the gun, (bad luck to the man who cut it down). Those cannoneers must have all died or disappeared, otherwise we would hear of or from them.

General Cobarrubias was the eminent character who bore the California electoral vote of 1852 to our country's capital to be cast for Franklin Pierce as President of the United States.

It was a very pretty and delicate compliment in appointing a native of California and a Mexican to cast our first electoral vote. There was chivalry in the act; and why not! Was not California then the double- distilled quintescence of chivalry? General Cobarrubias was an out-and-out representative of the chivalry of the times Elegant in his manners and appearance; speaking English and French as well as his native Spanish, a thorough politician withal, he became a power in the land, and among the politicians of early days he was of great importance.

The General was convivial in the fullest sense of the word. Yes, he was bibulous. He could drink an English lord under the table at any time, place, or under any circumstances whatever. Many is the "bout" he had with Ned McGowan, John McDougall, Elkin Heydenfeldt, Ipsydoodle Ferguson and their friends, the most eminent drinkers of the day, all of whom fell before his remarkable powers of absorption, unless, perchance, the ubiquitous McGowan.

Soon after his return from his mission to the Electoral College he paid Los Angeles a visit of honor (Gen. Cobarrubias resided at Santa Barbara), and was taken in charge by the leading Democrats of the city, and given a public dinner at the Cafe Barriere. Among the guests present were those renowned bon vivants, Myron Norton, Ezra Drown, Charles Edward Carr, Ogier and Brent, who, being aware of the General's wonderful

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powers of endurance, resolved to mix his wine with brandy, and place him hors du combat.

The festive board was spread and the guests were seated at 8 o'clock sharp, and the bibulous battle began in good earnest. At midnight many who were active at the opening of the festive artillery began to retire. Norton was top heavy; Drown was half-seas-over; Carr was waterlogged, and Ogier was in search of soundings whereon to cast his anchor. The General was as cool and level-headed as was Farragut while running the forts of the Mississippi. At 3 o'clock Madame Barriere and her corps of waiters retired from the field, leaving the level-headed Cobarrubias engaged in drawing the cork from a fresh bottle, and smilingly contemplating the maudlin antics of his befuddled entertainers. Daylight came, and the Madame heard the bell ringing in the dining-room, and repairing thither, what a sight met her astonished gaze. General Cobarrubias was sitting in his place at the head of the table, smoking his cigar and reading a newspaper, and the flower of American chivalry were laying around promiscuously, and under the table. "Madame," said the hero, gracefully waving his hand toward his fallen comrades(?), "what queer people these Americans are. They fight valiantly, but always fall early in the action. They have no bottom. You may bring me a bottle of cognac, after drinking which I can stand three soft-boiled eggs and a cup of coffee."

A great man was General Cobarrubias. The pomp and circumstance of the Democratic politicians of San Francisco escorted the General to the steamer, saw him safely quartered in the finest state-room on board, where a deluge of wine was turned on, and continued to flow until the steamer was brought to and overhauled off Meigg's Wharf, where the escort left the steamer, which majestically and like a thing of life swept past the Golden Gate, bearing Cæsar and his fortunes.

The General had the seat of honor at the ship's table, and wined every man and woman at the table who would be wined,

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and my memory faileth me in my attempt to remember a single soul in '52 who would refuse to be wined.

The General dispensed a bibulous hospitality in his state-room, gave private wine suppers in the ship's cabin at late hours. The consequence was that when the steamer reached Panama the ship's storekeeper presented the General with a bill of $3,000 for wine on the fortnight's voyage. Oh! genius, where dost thou dwell, and where is the place of thy nativity? Paris? Berlin? London? or the other capitals of the old world? New York? Boston? or Washington, with thy superlative dead-head, Beau Hickman? Yes! all of you have given birth to men of genius who have electrified the world, all of whom have been pigmies as compared with this magnificent Barbareno, whose genius cropped out and made itself as manifest as a native quartz ledge, for, when this Brobdignagian liquor bill was spread out before the General he only cast his eye upon the following figures, to- wit, $3,000, when coolly and without a word he drew his check for the amount on the National Democratic Committee, pocketed the bill, said " Esta bueno," invited the storekeeper and purser to his stateroom to finish up a few bottles, then, entering a boat, the General landed at Darien to pass over the same road marked out by his illustrious countryman, Nunez de Balboa. On the Atlantic side the same game was played with about the same result. When the steamer came to off Sandy Hook the news went flying to New York that Gen. Cobarrubias, a Mexican Grandee of unlimited wealth, was on board, bearing the electoral vote of California. The result was when the steamer drew alongside her wharf, all Tammany was on hand to receive, do honor to, and escort the General to quarters prepared for him at the Astor House. The New York Democracy had a lion for a guest, and they showed him around. His reception was equal to those given to Gen. Grant on his voyage around the world.

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What! A former Mexican General, a California Grandee! New York went wild over him, and Tammany appointed a committee to escort him to the capital, and he was not permitted to spend a dollar while in the land of Knickerbocker or on his way to and from the capital. Discharging his duties at the Electoral College, by presenting the vote of California in a grandiloquent speech, in which he pledged his State to the Democracy for all time, and after lionizing in Washington, the Californian returned with his Tammany escort to Manhattan, and, being wined, dined and lionized a second time, was duly shipped off to his native State.

Drawing his check on "the Committee" at the Isthmus for his wine bill, which for the last time he repeated at San Francisco. His wine checks were duly honored by the National Committee, to the tune of about $10,000. And why not? Notwithstanding the General's acres were very wide, and his purse it was quite narrow, still he was a General, a California Grandee, and the National Democracy felt honored in having such an eminent person cast the virgin vote of the young State.

The great man is long since dead. The mantle of magnificence which enveloped the graceful form of the father has descended in diminished grandeur, and rests on the shoulders of a worthy son (a small chip of the old block), and the name of Cobarrubias is still of weighty consequence in this consequentially great country.

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WHEN the writer came to Los Angeles, notwithstanding the disjointed state of affairs, society was really good; better, the writer ventures the assertion, than at present, or than may reasonably be expected within the next decade. Prior to and at that time the old wealthy and intelligent Spanish families had formed a strictly exclusive class. They went to make up the aristocracy of this country, and dispensed a liberal hospitality that did honor to them as a people, as well as to the more favored class of Americans who were so fortunate as to gain admission to their circles. Many of them, especially the well-fixed rancheros, dispensed a baronial hospitality, and they could well afford it.

Soon after my arrival in Los Angeles it was my good fortune to attend a first-class ball at the house of Don Jose Antonio Carrillo, a first-class citizen, one who had been honored with a seat in the Sovereign Congress of Mexico. He had also been the military head of the country, and was at the head of native California ton.

The ball was the first of the season, and was attended by the elite of the country from San Diego to Monterey. The dancing hall was large, with a floor as polished as a bowling

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saloon. The music was excellent--one splendid performer on an immense harp.

The assembled company was not only elegant--it was surpassingly brilliant. The dresses of both ladies and gentlemen could not be surpassed in expensive elegance. The fashions of the gringo world had made little innovation on the gorgeous and expensive attire of the country as to the gentlemen, while the ladies were resplendent in all the expense of fashion that could be supplied by unlimited resources. The writer had read Major Emery's book on California, in which, after lauding the California horsemen above the Comanche Indian and the Bedouin Arab, he went on to say that "the ladies excelled in dancing more than did the men in horsemanship."

Being thus prepared, the writer expected to witness reasonably elegant Terpsichorean performances, but the dancing on that occasion was something more than elegant, it was wonderful, while the most dignified and staid decorum was observed to the end of the festivities, which broke up about two o'clock in the morning. It was at this ball that I first met my old Ranger comrade, Captain J. Q. A. Stanley. Among other distinguished characters at the ball were the celebrated Juan Bandini, a learned man of the country, Doctor Don Ricardo Den of generous and chivalrous memory, who being a subject of Great Britain during the war with Mexico, gave his services gratuitously to both sides in the war, and deservedly won the love and gratitude of all, and Don Tomas Sanchez, a true son of chivalry, who had wielded a good lance at San Pascual.

Some two and-a-half months thereafter we had one of those very elegant and exclusive affairs that ended in blood, its very exclusiveness being the cause of its very sanguinary termination. The ball was given at the house of Don Abel Stearns, a very wealthy American, on Washington's birthday, February 22, 1853, and was a grand and patriotic affair, but very exclusive. Somehow or other two or three gamblers were invited

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guests at the ball, which gave grave offence to the fraternity in general, among whom were many first class Americans, good and patriotic fellows, who loved their country and venerated the name of the immortal hero in honor of whose memory the grand affair was gotten up. These gentlemen maintained that on national occasions one American was as good as another, and that the whole community were on an equal footing, and that to attempt an exclusive national celebration was tomfoolery of the first order. So about two hundred of them assembled to "bust up" and disperse the exclusive humbug. The first move was to get the old cannon, which had grown rusty for lack of revolutions, and place it in position directly in front of the house and bearing on one of the doors. They then procured a large beam, to be used as a battering ram when the time arrived for the general assault--all of which was done with the utmost silence.

At about midnight, when the patriotic dancing was at fever heat, and everything was hilarious within, the old gun was let off, and the battering-ram was driven with terrific force against the other door. Fortunately the cannon was badly trained, and the charge missed the door. The battering-ram, however, did its work well, and the door burst in with a tremendous crash. It fortunately happened that one game little fellow, who was one of the exclusives, was dancing directly in front of the burst- in door, and had a battery of Colts buckled to him, either of which was nearly as large as himself.

This patriotic exclusive stepped directly to the door and plugged the first gentleman who attempted to enter. Then another, and another, and by this time the affair had assumed all the beautiful proportions of a first- class revolution, and the firing became general. Of the assailants several were shot down, and the assault effectually repulsed; while of the exclusives but one man was wounded, and he the gay and festive Myron Norton, the chivalric vanquisher of the great Largo in

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that memorable game of billiards heretofore referred to. The brilliant Norton received a gentle perforation, that placed him hors du combat for some time thereafter.

For the next few days the Angels were on a war footing; the community was divided; the defeated gamblers swore vengeance; the well-heeled exclusives were on the alert, determined not to be taken unawares; a general conflict seemed imminent; on retiring at night doors were barricaded and arms carefully examined; a silent, moody gloom prevailed; the gamblers would meet in groups and menacingly discuss the situation; the business part of the community was greatly alarmed. Confidence was only restored when Don Andres Pico came out and gave the gamblers to emphatically understand that, on the first hostile demonstration, he would raise the native Californians en masse against them, and that he would not be responsible for the consequences. It nevertheless took months to cool off the bad blood engendered by that affair of the 22nd of February, 1853, and for some time individual collisions were of frequent occurrence.

I had now been several months in the city of the Angels, and had not as yet visited the Mission of San Gabriel. So one Monday morning I mounted a fiery mustang, and hied me over the beautiful green prairie sward to that interesting and classic spot.

The reader who now journeys over the nine miles of intervening hill and dale between Los Angeles and San Gabriel, has to draw very forcibly on his imagination to take in the landscape as it then was. At the time referred to the writer saw at least 10,000 head of horses pasturing on the rich and verdant plain, their number seeming without limit, while here and there could be seen the picturesque figure of the Lasador in the same unique costume worn five hundred years ago in the Vega of Grenada, or on the plains of Morocco. The landscape was romantic and lively in those early times, as now it is

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gloomy and monotonous. The lazy sheep-herder, with his dusty flock, has driven out the snorting mustang and his dashing rider.

I necessarily felt a great exhilaration of spirits on arriving at the Mission. The beautiful morning, the bracing air, the grand mountain scenery in front of me. The enlivening scene constantly present, the splendid gait of my well-broken charger (the word mustang would be an insult to the noble horse ridden on that occasion), all tended to inspire a buoyancy of feeling that prepared the writer to enjoy whatever of the pleasant might present itself at the Mission. I rode up to "Headquarters" and was met by a very handsome black bearded young man by name Roy Bean, brother and successor of General Josh Bean. The General had been the proprietor of the "Headquarters," the first grog-shop of the place. Roy was dressed in elegant Mexican costume, with a pair of revolvers in his belt, while a bowie knife was neatly sheathed in one of his red-topped boots. I inquired if I could get barley for my horse. "Yes," said he, "as soon as Vicente comes in."

"When will Vicente come in?" I inquired.

"When they get through hanging that fellow," said he.

"What fellow?" said I.

"Oh!" said he, "the Injuns have began to learn the white man's tricks. By--!" said he with a laugh, "look! Isn't that rich?"

While thus conversing my attention was drawn up the road some 200 yards to the west, to a large crowd of Mexicans and Indians, men, women and children, on foot and on horseback, and when Roy laughed and said "Isn't that rich?" I saw a man go directly upward to the limb of a tree and there remain until an hour later, when, with a feeling in strange contrast with the exhilaration felt on approaching the pleasant looking place, I took my departure without getting the feed of barley for my gallant little charger. After crossing the arroyo, and

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being about a half mile away, I halted, turned my horse's head, and there still hung the poor victim dangling in the air. At the same time there went up a wail of despair, as though from the friends and relatives of the murdered Indian. When Roy said "Isn't that rich?" he concluded with: "Watch my front door and see that no d--d thief steals my whisky," and without another word hastily mounted his horse and dashed off to the place of execution, evidently intent on more readily drinking in the rapture of the occasion. During the hour I spent at that happy place, I learned the reason of the hanging of the poor Indian.

At the time there were three great grog-shops at the Mission; all kept by Americans; all doing a smashing business, especially on Sundays, when from early dawn till late at night these devil's workshops would be surrounded by a mass of drunken, howling Indians. About sundown the smashing business would begin in good earnest; that is to say, these gentle aboriginal Christians would commence to smash in each other's skulls. Now you see the kind of a "smashing" business carried on by our three honorable contrymen in addition to getting the Indian's coin.

The "Headquarters," the most aristocratic of the three grog-shops, was situated at the southwest corner of the then great Mission building; the sign was painted in large black letters on the clean whitewashed front of the building. The place was certainly the "Headquarters" of all the lazzaroni of the country. Judging from the crowd of vagabonds who put in an immediate appearance after the summary disposition of the Indian, Roy's head was quite level when he said "the d--d thieves will steal my whisky."

Why the place was called "Headquarters" I failed to learn, but most probably the reason was as before stated, or perhaps because it was such a famous place for splitting and quartering heads, a pastime that the elevated Indian, whose obituary I

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must now attend to, had been engaged in; that is to say, he quartered the head of a fellow aboriginee at the "Headquarters" on the previous night, was placed in durance, and forth with, on the following morning, carried before His Honor Judge Dennison, a "duly elected and qualified Justice of the Peace," and Associate Judge of the Court of Sessions of the county. The Judge held his Court at the grog-shop of Frank Carroll, who hung out in the beautiful cottage residence of one of the Mission Fathers, situated in the Old Mission orange grove. Frank, with that remarkable spirit of enterprise which characterized many of our early settlers, had jumped the Fathers' cottage, and there fixed his pioneer roof-tree and hung out his sign, and dispensed the invigorating fluid to both man and beast.

The Judge, who was more towering in his ambition, jumped the orange grove, and became the original shipper of the golden fruit to the San Francisco market. The Judge was engaged in a quiet game of "old sledge" with one of Frank's customers, for the morning nips, when the Indian was brought into Court. He very gravely laid down his hand and inquired what the matter was. When informed of the nature of the offence he picked up his cards, sipped his cocktail, and remarked in Spanish: "Well, you had better take him out and hang him," and then continued his game without further interruption; and the sentence of the Court was carried into immediate execution, as before shown.

The Mission is a classic spot, and well it may be. Classical writers have written, and become enthusiastic in writing, about the old crumbling adobe walls. One of the more inspired, in referring to the old church and the churchyard, uses the following language, drawing on Longfellow for help:

"Lingering around the charmed precincts of this venerable pile (meaning the church), my footsteps led me unconsciously to that portion of the grounds set apart as the City of the

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Dead. Here, among these unmarked graves, might Evangeline have come, if her long wanderings had led her to this, as they did to the 'Mission of the Black Robes,' where her Gabriel was to her so near and yet so far."

The writer assumes that Evangeline didn't come, and if her Gabriel had been laid away in that old graveyard, then Gabriel would have been in the extreme of bad luck, and the writer feels confident that the reader will readily agree with him that if Evangeline had been stationed at the "venerable pile" as a military outlook for a month or two, as was the writer, and had observed the tolling of the Mission bells at each consecutive funeral, and had observed the manoeuvers of the interesting Mission squirrels that burrowed in the protecting artificial mounds formed by the crumbling walls, the squirrels coming in greedy haste at the doleful summons of the tolling Mission bells, Evangeline would have wished her Gabriel in a more secure and less frequented place.

Now, as a matter of fact, the writer, in his early military career in the summer of 1853, was stationed at the "venerable pile" as a Ranger Scout, a sort of an individual corps of observation, and while one day sauntering around the City of the Dead, making observations and taking notes in his mind, his attention was arrested by the deep tolling of the Mission bells, which gave notice of the commencement of the journey of some departed spirit to the unknown bourne. The young military observer halted, sat his carbine against the old crumbling wall of the churchyard, and with grave demeanor awaited the coming funeral.

"D-o-n-g, d-o-n-g, d-o-n-g," went the Mission bells.

"Chirp, chirp, chirp, rippity-skip," came a troupe of Mission squirrels. In a moment the wall was covered with them, all sitting as erect as a Sergeant-Major at guard-mount--their little thumbs on the ends of their little noses, while their little fingers would seem to girate in a derisive and playful manner

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at the venerable old coffee-colored sexton, who thoughtfully leaned on his ancient spade beside the new-made grave.

This grave historian was lost in thought. "T-o-l-l; t-o-l-l; t-o-l-l," went the Mission bells. "Chatter, chatter, chatter," sang the happy and expectant Mission squirrels.

The funeral procession arrived, each mourner in line, armed with a burning tallow candle. The solemn services of the church were soon at an end. The sepulchral sound of the earth being thrown into the grave, the "t-o-l-l, t- o-l-l, t-o-l-l," of the Mission bells, the mournful wail of the near relatives of the departed soul, the happy "chirp, chirp, chatter, chatter, chatter," of the triumphant Mission squirrels, and the sorrowful procession filed away from the grave and departed.

When the Mission bells ceased their tolling, the happy Mission squirrels galloped around the old wall, frisking and chattering apparently to each other with a seeming human intelligence.

The Mission squirrel smiles as he listens,
To the sound that grows apace;
Well he knows of the funeral coming,
By the toll of the bells in the holy place.

When all was silent as a grave-yard, except the chattering squirrels, the young Ranger entered, and, approaching the sombre old sexton, respectfully inquired if the squirrels always came to the funerals.

"Si, senor, siempre" (yes, sir, always), said he.

"How is it?" said the Ranger. "Why do they come?"

"Quien sabe," said the old grave-digger, "estos animalitos son muy inteligentes." (These little fellows are very intelligent.)

"Do they come at vesper ringing?" inquired the Ranger.

"Nunca," said the grave-digger, "y porque?" (Never, and why should they?)

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"Do they come when the happy ringing calls the pious to mass?" asked the Ranger.

"Never," said the Sexton. "Did I not tell you they were intelligent animals?"

"And they only come to funerals then," once more ventured the Ranger.

"They only come to the funerals," said the serious Sexton as he shouldered his shovel, and with grave and measured tread left the graveyard.

This most truthful historian solemnly asseverates that such was really the case; that those Mission bells might ring all day, as they frequently did on joyous occasions, without disturbing the equanimity of a single squirrel: But just let the bell give one "t-o-l-l," and the scene that has been depicted would invariably be repeated.

Surely the old Sexton spoke the truth when he said, "these little fellows are very intelligent." Their intelligence seemed almost cannibal.

Now, does the reader for one moment suppose that if "Evangeline" had come and witnessed such a funeral as the one seen by the Ranger, she might, in the solemn hush of even-tide, have

"Sat by some nameless grave,
And thought that perhaps in its bosom
He was already at rest,
And longed to slumber beside him."

Evangeline would not by any manner of means have been so stupid. She would have been frightened away by the squirrels.

Poets have exhausted their fire about the Mission bells, but it has been left to this humble military scribe to attempt to do justice to the remarkable intelligence of those Mission squirrels.

The writer, in pursuing the direct road of veracity, will not scruple in tearing off masks and fancy dresses, when presented in disguise, for the benefit of posterity, and will venture only so

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far as he can have the assistance of the bull's-eye of truth, and will in his truthful narration always neglect the will-o'-the-wisp of mere romance.

The classical writer of "Semi-Tropical California," who made us all rich with the flourish of his pen, goes on in rapturous musings in laudation of the "venerable pile," and says: "But it is time these musings had an end. It is vesper hour. Long, long years ago, grandees and high-born dames, men and women in middle rank in life, and peasants, some bowed with age, and children of tender years, stood round a seething furnace in Old Spain. Ornaments of gold and silver were flung into the fiery mass. Anon a chime of bells came from the master's hand. With prayer and chant and benediction, they were given to the keeping of a galleon, bound for this far-off land. Propitious winds bore them in safety to the old embarcadero of the Mission of San Gabriel. For many and many a year the bells have flung their silvery music on the evening air."

How very romantic all this would be, were it not masked in the thinnest gauze.

The writer visited Panama in 1856, and the first thing shown him by an enthusiastic Panameno was one of Harper's Monthlies, which gave the same account of the origin of the "bells of Panama," and the same story is repeated as to every bell in Spanish America, especially if written about by adventurous American newspaper romancers. If not romance, but fact, then the "grandees," "dames," and "men and women in middle rank of life," and "peasants," must have had immense superfluity of gold and silver ornaments. I do remember, however, that in 1855 there was a great earthquake, that shook the Mission bells so hard that their ancient rawhide fastenings gave way, and some of the bells came down with a crash.

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THE reader is now brought to May, 1853, and all of the important transactions occurring from the time the writer arrived up to that date have been generally referred to, with all important digressions. It was the intention of this very impartial chronicler to mention several great local historical characters before touching on any other great events. One character, whose acquaintance the writer made about a month after his arrival, has been intentionally postponed from time to time, for the reason that so far he felt his utter inability to do justice to the greatest and most sublime character, possibly, the world has ever known-- certainly the grandest genius the author has ever had the honor of knowing, and he has known and stood in the presence of many eminent characters, even royalty; that is to say, this humble subscriber has stood in the presence of, sat in the palace with, and drank unadulterated rum out of the same calabash with His Royal Majesty George Frederick Clarence, the great ruler of the Mosquito Kingdom, and the favorite protege of the Imperial Victoria. The reader can now readily perceive that the author has been a person of great consequence, and will wonder that any Republican American could have survived so much honor.

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The writer reiterates that he has associated on terms of easy familiarity with many great and illustrious persons, extending all the way from the Mosquito King to Round-House George, but never felt his utter insignificance as an individual until brought into the presence of the great Angel of this angelic town, a man greatest among the great, one who carved his name on the history of every country he ever honored with his presence, extending all the way from the white cliffs of Albion to the piratical Soo Loo Archiepelago.

Now does the reader wonder that this timid writer has so long hesitated, and still hesitates to even attempt to give to the world the history of one so illustrious. Such a person actually dwells among us mundane angels, and the author will devote one whole future chapter in giving to posterity a true biography of this world-renowned angel, and will now proceed to inform the reader of the way, form and style of an ancient and original municipal election in the city of angels.

Los Angeles polled a very great vote in the happy times of pioneer elections. With her population of 5,000, a greater number of votes were deposited in the ballot-boxes than at present, with our four times greater number of noses, and it will now be the duty of the writer to attempt to explain the modus operandi of getting four or five votes out of each sovereign voter.

May Day election arrived. The sun of Austerlitz rose in all the splendor only known to this sunny clime. Before he cast his first glittering rays on "Gallows Hill," so styled at the time by some profane people, the whole population seemed thoroughly aroused to the importance of the great event. Anxious looking individuals could he seen with pockets full of tickets, hurrying towards the plaza, the nigger-alley corner of which was the polling place. By 8 o'clock A.M. several old army ambulances, ablaze with banners bearing the name of some candidate,

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commenced driving up and down the principal streets at a furious pace, while one immense wagon with a full band of Mexican circus performers, drove up and down the streets with a regular force of skirmishers and flankers thrown out, capturing and bringing in to the great wagon American citizens to be used as stepping stones to the fortune of some aspiring local politician. When the wagon was filled to its utmost capacity the music would cease, and the great vehicle would be driven in all haste to the polls, and the captured sovereigns would be taken out and marched up to the ballot-box, and after an immense amount of skirmishing and squabbling, for be it known they were not quietly permitted to vote, as the friends and strikers of opposing candidates made every possible effort to change the ticket on the voters as they stood in line waiting their turn. The duties of American citizenship were finally discharged, and one might suppose the victims were quietly permitted to depart. Not so, however, they were immediately taken in charge by another detachment of the candidates who had first made the capture and duly marched off, for what purpose, or where, only the initiated at that time could know. In a brief space of time, however, the same crowd would return to the polls, and for the second time duly discharge the duties of freemen, and will the writer's veracity be questioned when he asseverates that this herd of captured voters would be voted at least five times during the day, and every one of them would in all probability be Mexican and frequently aboriginal Indians, and in no wise entitled to vote.

The modus was in this wise: After voting the first time, which would be under gentle pressure, they would be taken to an improvised barber-shop, and their long hair cropped and being otherwise disguised, and then returned to the polls and voted under an assumed name; they would then return to the shaving place and go through another operation, and a possible whitewashing, another name would be given the citizen, also

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another drink and another dollar, and another vote would be polled for some enterprising candidate. Voting in early times used to be a lucrative business, and voters were considered valuable according to the facility offered for disguising one's self. Old Payuche, who at this day honors our chain-gang with his valuable services, used to be (as I am informed by an old politician, who is yet in the harness) disguised and voted five times at each successive election. Times have materially changed; at the present time the voters shave the candidates, in place of being shaved, as in the happy times long gone by.

Peter Biggs was in his glory on that election day. His shop and its various branches were crowded all day.

It was astonishing the amount of silver in circulation on that day. Mexican dollars were as abundant as $50 slugs, and more so, a dollar being the price of a vote. The reader will at once inquire, as did the innocent chronicler at the time, why so much strife, so much manoeuvring, such an expenditure of cash, when the annual salary of the Mayor, who was at the head of the ticket, was only $500. The Councilmen drew no pay, the Marshal's perquisites were small; the Assessor also got $500. The explanation is that this angelic city had a grand domain to be disposed of, the foundation of future jobs, and land operations were to be planned and fixed up with a view to future profit, and that was why such stupendous efforts were made to carry the election in May, 1853. It is not necessary to inform the reader what gentlemen were honored with the people's preference on that memorable day, only, as before stated, the gay and festive hangman was elected Marshal, and the people raised Old Nick on that occasion. They set a bad precedent, that has been improved and refined, until at this day we have the most skilfully managed elections that could be imagined outside the infernal regions.

That "history repeats itself" is an undisputed truism. That "virtue hath its own reward" is a maxim even older

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than "Poor Richard's Almanac." That "punishment is sure to follow the wrong doer," we have all had ample experience. Then, to be brief and to the point, let me inform the reader that the same horrible punishment inflicted on the unfortunate Marshal by the infuriated Attorney, heretofore referred to as having occurred at Madame Barriere's, at the time the bar went on a bust, was inflicted on the great Federal legal light, by the enlightened and highly civilized gentleman who did such wonderful honor to the best government in the sinecure position of Registrar of the United States Land Office. Sinecure, I say, because the officers were appointed before the land was even surveyed. That is to say, the two dignitaries were quietly supping together in one of the back rooms of the "Montgomery," when the pioneer legal representative of the Government emptied a plate of soup full in the face of the Land Office man, who, not in the least disturbed in his cool equanimity, quietly proceeded to lay the attorney across the table and deliberately bite off about an inch of that great Federal nose. Unfortunately for the dignity of the Government, the amateur surgeon who stitched on that nose made a nice graft of it, only he put it on upside down, which made it seem as though the Government man was always turning up his nose at more humble persons, while the fact was that the attorney was one of the most democratic of mankind, and would drink often and always with whomsoever invited him, though of high or of low degree.

One more memorable incident in the official career of the Attorney and he will be consigned to the affectionate memory of the few who honored him as a very good fellow, as well as a first-class pensioner on a first-class and benevolent Government.

The Judge who had been raised to the Federal Bench, and Gitchell, who had succeeded him as U. S. District Attorney, started one morning on a buggy ride, and the Judge bethought himself that it would be a pious idea to go by the old brewery

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and take a few drinks of gratuitous beer. So Gitchell held the horse while the Judge went in the back way to the beer barrels. All at once Gitchell heard a terrible roar from the Judge, then, "Oh, Lord, Gitchell! Gitchell, come quick! Oh!, Gitchell, d--n it, come; hurry, quick!"

Gitchell's horse was somewhat restive, and Gitchell made haste slowly, notwithstanding the Judge's "Gitchell! Gitchell! quick! Hell and fury, Gitchell, come quick! Come faster, faster," and even more emphatic exhortations.

Gitchell was a long time in reaching the Judge. Imagine, therefore, his surprise on entering the back yard of the brewery to find the Judge engaged in mortal combat, gasping for breath, with his head down, his lacerated posterior well elevated, thoroughly braced, with his brawny arms thrust forward and every nerve strained in an almost vain endeavor to hold at bay a furious antlered buck. As soon as he became aware that Gitchell had arrived, he roared out "Kill this d--d thing!"

"Oh, no!" said Gitchell; "it's a pet. Confound it, Judge, let the deer go; what in the name of all that's ridiculous are you doing? Let it go!"

"Blazes!" said the Judge, "I did let it go once, and it tore me all to pieces."

Gitchell was undecided, and of all the infernal traits, indecision is the most infernal. Through his indecision the buck gained a great advantage over the Judge, and forced him backward into a steaming mass of refuse hops; but the Judge, out of breath, blown and exhausted, held on to the antlers with the tenacity of a snapping-turtle. However, the deer got the Judge down in that steaming mass of softness.

The Judge gasped out: "Oh! for God's sake, Gitchell, break its back. When I let it go it will kill me."

"Why," says Gitchell, without the least excitement, and seemingly gratified at so much dignity in such an undignified

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position, "why, don't you see I have nothing to break its back with? Had I better go for the Marshal?"

By this time, to the great relief of the Judge, a valiant subject of King Gambrinus put in an appearance, and drew off the enemy. The Judge was utterly vanquished. A bran new suit of clothes was ruined, especially the pants. The Judge was so badly injured that he could neither ride in a buggy nor take a seat at the table, or anywhere else, for a month, every day of which time he begged Gitchell to say nothing about it. Every day Gitchell promised, and every day the town nearly burst its sides with laughter. Gitchell never told. The Gambrinus man kept mum, but that ferocious encounter between the Judge and the pet deer has found its way into history.

The Registrar of the Land Office--only, as before stated, there was no Land Office--was an out-and-out man-of-war. He could wield a bowie; was quick on the draw; struck square out from the shoulder, and could gouge out an eye, or bite off a nose, in such a style and manner as would excite the envy of the most fastidious backwoods fighter, and withal was a man of remarkable coolness, as might be inferred from his taking the anointed nose of Government without pepper or salt. As an instance of his coolness and nerve I will relate the following incident:

Lafayette Cotton was a first-class gambler, as well as an eminent fighting man. Lafayette married a native-born damsel of lascivious mien and voluptuous proportions, and became jealous of the stalwart Registrar, who was very amorously inclined. Lafayette, armed to the teeth, found the Registrar at the "Montgomery," quietly engaged in billiards. Lafayette, greatly excited, entered with revolver in hand.

"Get out of the way; I'm going to shoot! Draw and defend yourself!" said he, rushing up to the Registrar, who was just bridging his cue for a good shot.

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Without the least discomposure, or diverting his mind from the game-- without as much as turning his head--he said:

"Oh, go away, and don't bother this game!"

The cool audacity of the man had such a remarkable effect on the would-be murderer, that he moodily slunk out of the room and put up his revolver, remarking: "The man must be either crazy or a fool."

The Registrar was the hero of that day, while Cotton closed his bank for nearly a month.

The Registrar was a most remarkable gentleman, and the chronicler hopes his veracity will not be questioned when he assures the reader that it took two handsful of buckshot, fired from a double-barreled gun, to kill that remarkable character, for such was his taking off.

In relation to these important transactions, the author desires to say that they occurred along toward the latter part of the summer of '53, and are somewhat out of place, as well as in advance of still more important incidents yet to be related.

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AS STATED in the beginning of this history, on the arrest and confession of Reyes Feliz, Joaquin Murietta, his brother-in-law, who had for one or two years been domiciled among the angels, decamped, and was not heard of until the spring of 1853, when he commenced a succession of bold and successful operations in the southern mines, beginning at San Andres, in Calaveras County. His acts were so bold and daring, and attended with such remarkable success, that he drew to him all the Mexican outlaws, cut- throats and thieves that infested the country extending from San Diego to Stockton. No one will deny the assertion that Joaquin in his organizations, and the successful ramifications of his various bands, his eluding capture, the secret intelligence conveyed from points remote from each other, manifested a degree of executive ability and genius that well fitted him for a more honorable position than that of chief of a band of robbers. In any country in America except the United States, the bold defiance of the power of the government, a half year's successful resistance, a continuous conflict with the military and civil authorities and the armed populace--the writer repeats that in any other country in America other than the United States--the operations of Joaquin Murietta would have been dignified by the title

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of revolution, and the leader with that of rebel chief. For there is little doubt in the writer's mind that Joaquin's aims were higher than that of mere revenge and pillage. Educated in the school of revolution in his own country, where the line of demarkation between rebel and robber, pillager and patriot, was dimly defined, it is easy to perceive that Joaquin felt himself to be more the champion of his countrymen than an outlaw and an enemy to the human race.

About the first of March depredating commenced in Calaveras County, by the murder and robbery of teamsters and traveling miners. In April, emboldened by success, trading posts and mining camps were raided and robbed; stages were captured, the passengers pillaged and murdered, and a vessel plying on the San Joaquin River was taken and stripped in open daylight.

By the middle of May the whole country from Stockton and San Jose to Los Angeles, a distance of 500 miles, was in arms; murder and rapine were the order of the day; the bandits seemed to be everywhere, and to strike when and where least expected. About the first of June two companies of Rangers were raised, one in Calaveras, under Captain Harry Love, and one in Los Angeles, commanded by Captain Alexander Hope, a bold spirit, in every way qualified by nature and experience to grapple with the desperate characters who held the country absolutely at their mercy, laughed at the officers of the law and bade defiance to the civil government.

To show the value of our company and our appreciation, I am permitted to make the following extract from Colonel John O. Wheeler's great newspaper of the day, "The Southern Californian," of date October '54.

"LOS ANGELES RANGERS.--In our last week's issue we regret to say that we neglected to notice the active and prompt assistance rendered by the Los Angeles Rangers in assisting in the arrest of some of the most dangerous desperadoes in this

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county, and who are, no doubt, in some way connected with the brutal murder of Mr. Ellington, of the Monte, two of whom are at present undergoing examination before our courts of justice. Our only excuse to offer to the Rangers is, that the actions of this company are so prompt, active and secret, that in almost all cases the company is out on scout, returned, and the prisoner arraigned, before our citizens are aware of an outrage having been committed in our community. Within the last few days parties of the Rangers have been scouring the country in search of murderers and robbers from the north, who are said to be at present in or near this county, and so far have assisted in the capture of some, and driven others across our border who were lurking here and trying to escape from justice.

"We are proud to think that this troop has the full confidence of our whole community, and the cry is on all such occasions as we were under the necessity of recording last week, 'Where are the Rangers?' In all of their excursions, which have been many, their success, as our records in court will show, have been indeed wonderful. Only three or four days ago, on the arrival of a Sheriff from the north in search of a murderer, two parties started in pursuit, one party with Under-Sheriff Hanniger, after a band of horse thieves who had stolen some horses from Hon. A. Stearns. They returned successful with both the thieves and horses, and the other remained on scout until the murderer was taken.

"Last year our Legislature made a small appropriation for the use of this efficient troop, part of which has been spent for forage for the horses, equipage, and for necessary expenses while in the field, leaving a balance on hand in the keeping of the Treasurer of this county, which will be used for similar purposes, not one of the troop having received one cent of recompense for their services, as some of the Rangers in the north did.

"We again say that we are proud of this little band, and assert that this company at the present time can vie, under the present Captain, with any company in this State. Our citizens and rancheros have formerly contributed to the support of this company, and we hope they will continue to do so.

MR. EDITOR:--We wish, through your columns, to tender our heartfelt thanks to the Los Angeles Rangers, for the prompt assistance rendered by that efficient corps to us, in ferreting out the murderers of the unfortunate Major Ellington.

Yours, with respect,

THE CITIZENS OF THE MONTE.

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The company carried 100 names on its rolls, and the author hopes that, having been a member of that pioneer military corps, he will be pardoned for the assertion that they were as bold a band as ever flashed a sabre or answered to the blast of a bugle. Alas! few of that gallant troop remain. Many followed the fortunes of the "gray-eyed man of destiny," and their bones moulder in the tropical damps of Nicaragua. Others fell beneath the treacherous blows of the bloody Apache. Others were traced to the battlefields of the great Rebellion.

A few were known to have fallen in personal broils. Most of them died in the saddle, but not one of that old Ranger band was ever known to find his way ignominiously to the interior of a prison, and the few that remain are of the most honored of our citizens, and if the city of Los Angeles ever had anything to be proud of, it was her heroic Ranger defenders who rid the country of an innumerable horde of freebooters and assassins, who threatened a war of utter extermination on the comparatively few Americans that then inhabited the Southern counties. The surviving members known to be alive are W. W. Jenkins, D. W. Alexander, Cyrus Lyon, Capt. J. Q. A. Stanley, Horace Bell, the author hereof, all of Los Angeles County; George McManus, merchant of Chihuahua; Hon. H. N. Alexander, of Arizona Territory; David Brevoort, of New Mexico, and Montgomery Martin, of Philadelphia, the colleague of A. P. Crittenden, they being the first Representatives in the State Legislature from Los Angeles County. The author wishes to say that in using the word "Mexican" he does not mean the native California rancheros, who generally co-operated with the authorities in the suppression of outlawry and contributed largely to the support of the Rangers.

Among the most liberal of the supporters of the Rangers were, in money, Phineas Banning; in horses, Don Pio Pico, the last of the Mexican Governors, Don Ygnacio Del Valle, John

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Rowland and the generous Isaac Williams, of Chino. I remember at one time Senor Del Valle sent in one hundred well broken horses for the company to choose from, and take them all if they suited.

About the time the Rangers took the field, one of the upcountry Sheriffs came to Los Angeles in search of some particular character, and on one beautiful Sabbath morning he was assassinated in the street. A few days thereafter, the Marshal of the city, the one who succeeded the hangman, was stabbed to the heart in open daylight, by one Senati, at the corner of Los Angeles and Aliso streets. More will be said of Senati hereafter. His name figures in one of the most bloody chapters in the history of the angels, which will be disposed of in due time.

Only a few days later a cattle buyer, on his way to the city from the Dominguez Rancho, was killed and robbed by one Manuel Vergara, whose pursuit, escape and subsequent killing at Yuma will be also related at the proper time. Midnight raids and open day robbery and assassinations of defenseless or unsuspecting Americans were of almost daily occurrence in either one part of the country or another, at the time the Rangers took the field.

We had two brothers in the company who are worthy of mention, Green and Wiley Marshall, natives of Texas. Young men raised on the frontier, both members of Captain Sam Walker's famous Ranger company that gained such renown in the war with Mexico. They were twin brothers, and were never separated but twice in their lives, and the second time was the last on earth. If separated only for a day they seemed lost. A kind of homesickness would overcome both twin brothers. They always went together on all of our expeditions, riding side by side. They were recklessly brave and of course perfect in the use of arms and expert in horsemanship. Generous to a fault, the two Marshall boys

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were great favorites in the company. They were the beau ideal of the American frontier Ranger. In the spring of '50 they started overland from Texas to California, and before they fairly got beyond the settlements, Wiley was taken seriously ill, so much so that after halting in camp for several days, and Wiley still continuing ill, it was determined that the company should proceed overland and that the sick man should go by easy stages, being convalescent, to Galveston, thence by sea to San Francisco. After this arrangement, the brothers separated for the first time in their lives, even for a day.

Wiley arrived in San Francisco in due time, and after the lapse of ninety days from the starting overland of his brother, and no tidings (ninety days being deemed ample time for the journey to San Diego, the objective point), and a month passed and another month. Still no tidings, and Wiley went to San Diego and anxiously waited another month, and not a rumor of the lost company, and the devoted brother mounted a horse, and with a pack mule started overland alone in search of his missing twin brother.

He found him at Tucson, an invalid, emaciated and helpless, slowly recovering from a multiplicity of wounds, any one of which would ordinarily have killed a person.

Green gave the following statement of his adventures, which he related time and again to the writer, on night rides and in bivouac, and the horrible scars visible on his person needed no recital; they spoke for themselves.

Green said their journey was extremely pleasant, no serious annoyance from the Indians, fine grass for their animals, plenty of game, which kept their camp constantly supplied with fresh buffalo meat and venison. Their trip was one of unalloyed pleasure to all except himself, who felt a constant and worrisome anxiety for the loss of his brother's society. The party numbered seventeen men. They passed the New Mexican settlements on the Rio Grande, and the 90-mile jornada from

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the great river to the Pinos Altos Mountains, and had, as they thought, passed over half the distance from the Rio Grande to Tucson, and must have been somewhere in the vicinity of what is now known as Apache Pass. One morning, while engaged in packing up, they were attacked by the Apaches. Green was stricken down senseless, and lay in that condition, as he thought, an hour or more, when he revived and found himself in a deluge of blood and covered with wounds. Fortunately he had his canteen of water, which had been prepared for the day, and still had sufficient strength to raise it to his lips and drink. He then wiped the blood from his eyes, raised himself by a chaparral bush and bewilderingly took in the surroundings. Fifty yards from where he totteringly stood, the horrible spectacle of his slaughtered comrades, stark, mutilated and scalped, presented themselves to his horrified view. The savages were laughingly engaged in dividing the spoils of the camp. He said he must have gazed on the horrid scene for full five minutes, at the expiration of which time he began to realize his situation. He turned to move away, and at the first step he fell to the ground. He then took another draught from his canteen and crawled away, some 100 yards, when he raised himself by another bush, looked first in the direction of the bloody camp and then in the opposite direction, and to his inexpressible joy, within thirty yards he saw his own mule, saddled and bridled, and just as he had left it when the attack was made. His first thought was, would it permit him to catch it. Ordinarily it would, but his bloody condition, and the fright of the mule in the great excitement of the attack, caused him grave and harrowing doubts of its permitting him even to approach it. No time, however, was to be lost, and he first spoke to the mule, and to his utter surprise and joy, with a low bray of seeming delight, it came directly up and stood beside him. With another draught which emptied the canteen and a desperate effort, he succeeded

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in mounting, and the faithful and intelligent animal without any guidance, or urging forward, moved hastily away, over the chaparral-covered plains. By this time the sun had nearly reached meridian, and onward went the faithful mule, poor Green exerting to his utmost his fast-failing strength to maintain himself in the saddle. At last the poor mule quickened her pace, she had scented water. In an hour more, which brought the time to about the middle of the afternoon, the light-footed little mule brought him to a beautiful cienega (oasis) fringed with shady willows. He dismounted and quenched his burning thirst and cooled his heated head in the limpid water, and laid him down to rest in the protecting shade of one of the trees bordering the cienega. In a brief space of time he fell asleep, and slept delightfully for at least two hours. He awoke to find his faithful companion quietly grazing on the luxuriant grass that abounded in profusion. It was nearly sunset, and he began seriously and calmly to consider the situation. Another drink and he felt strong. He then proceeded to strip his mule of saddle and bridle and tie her with the picket rope, which had been coiled and securely fastened to the pommel of his saddle. The next thing was to attempt an examination of his wounds. His face and nose were slashed open horizontally across, which seemed to have been done by a lance thrust transversely under the nose and cutting outwardly through the surface. He found three lance thrusts through his body, and one that seemed to penetrate the lungs. Fortunately he had a change of clothing inside his blankets, which had been strapped on behind his saddle, so he proceeded to remove his bloody clothes, wash himself as best he could, and bandage his wounds. He then dressed himself and felt somewhat comfortable, spread his blankets and again went to sleep. When morning came he felt the gnawings of hunger, and set himself to work to prepare his breakfast. Arms he had none, save his knife. Whether or not he had used his rifle and

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revolvers, he had no recollection. However, a man of his schooling is seldom without resources. He had his Mexican mecha (flint and steel), and he proceeded to make a fire. He then dug some tule roots, roasted and ate them. He then procured some prickly pears, burned the thorns off, carefully scraped them, split them in two and bound them to his wounds. He then put in the whole day in roasting tule roots for his onward journey toward the setting sun. Another night in camp, a breakfast of roots, a canteen full of water, a copious draught, and the forlorn but brave young fellow took up his line of march, determined to defy even fate itself. The first day exhausted his canteen of water; on the fourth his roots were gone, and his case seemed hopeless. The fifth day and no water, and he made a camp and passed the night in a half-delirious state. In the morning he determined to sacrifice his last and only friend, the mule; but how was he to do even that, he had his bowie knife, but not the strength to use it. After mature deliberation he securely tied the mule's head to a substantial bush, and supporting himself by its neck he drove the knife into its neck vein. It stood perfectly still, and he glued his lips to its gushing life-stream and satisfied both thirst and hunger. He then filled his canteen with the blood of his faithful companion, and by this time it sank down and expired. He put in another day in cutting up and jerking the mule's meat, and on the following day he recommenced his journey westward. On foot and solitary he pursued his lonely march. Sometimes, but seldom, he would find water. The second day after killing his mule, he struck a road and then lost it; he counted the days up to fifteen and then became delirious and insensible to all around him. When he regained his reason he found himself in a clean bed and a comfortable room, and soon learned that he was in the house of a benevolent priest of a Mexican village that proved to be Tuscon; that some herders in search of cattle had found him wandering aimlessly on the

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burning desert, about twenty miles from the village; had administered such relief as they could, and then brought him to the priest, under whose benevolent care he had then been two weeks.

The priest informed him that in addition do the other horrible wounds, the air passed through a great opening under his left breast to the lungs. He said it took him another full week to collect his scattered senses and remember the horrible occurrences just detailed. Late in the season Green, in company with his twin brother, arrived in safety in Los Angeles, and afterwards became members of the Ranger Company.

During the troublous times of '52, '53 and '54, sufficient excitement was furnished in the southern counties to satisfy the most mercurial adventurer, but in '55 and '56 dull times began to grow apace, and the restless spirits of the country began to cast about for more prolific fields of adventure. In the summer of '56 the Marshall brothers made up their minds to go to Nicaragua and join their fortunes with the conquering filibusters who ruled that country. Wiley went down first, leaving Green to settle up some mining business in Calaveras County. Green failed to arrive in August, as intended, and in September Wiley was appointed to the command of an important enterprise known in the history of the filibuster war as the "Hair-brained expedition of Wiley Marshall." A hundred men mounted and armed with revolvers, went sixty miles to attack a fortress defended by five times their number--one of the most foolhardy attempts-- not exceeded in stupid gallantry by Texas Tom Green storming an iron-clad gunboat on Red River with double-barreled shotguns. Of course the expedition failed--a bloody repulse was the result. When the expedition left Masaya, where the writer was stationed, Wiley came to take his leave, and the writer inquired when he thought Green would be down. He answered nervously, "Oh, didn't I tell you? Green is dead."

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"Impossible," said I; "did we not hear from him by the last steamer?"

"Oh, yes," he replied, "but he died day before yesterday, and I am only half a man now," and he smiled sadly.

"Don't look so incredulous," said he. "I knew the very moment of his death, and thought I was going myself at the time, and nothing but the excitement of this important command would have sufficed to arouse me from the shock."

Thirty hours later and Wiley was dead. His command was cut to pieces by the enemy, repulsed, driven, and followed eighteen miles by the enemy's lancers. Wiley had his thigh shattered by a ball; was mounted on his horse, and rode that eighteen miles with his shattered leg dangling at the side of his horse, all the time insisting on maintaining his position in the rear of his flying command. Arriving at a place of safety he was taken off his horse, and died in less than two minutes.

I afterwards learned that Green, the twin brother, died in California on the very day stated by Wiley, and they were 3,000 miles apart at the time. The writer relates this as a fact, and leaves it to science to explain the cause if it can.

This digression has led the reader a long way from Southern California, but when informed that many now residing in Los Angeles remember the two Marshall boys, even if not so familiar with the peculiar and mysterious affinity existing between them as was the writer, and the remarkable tenacity of life, as manifested by both brothers, was so peculiar in itself, the narrative having also a tendency to show the manner of men composing the Ranger company, and the dangers encountered in getting to this land of gold in early times, all of which is certainly a reasonable excuse for the digression.

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THIS humble military chronicler proposes in the future, as he has done in the past, to write up all the wars and campaigns in which he has ever participated, not for self glorification, or with the vain hope of being considered a military critic, but with the unselfish desire to enroll on the page of history the names of all the great military commanders under whom he has had the honor of serving, in a subordinate capacity. In the past he has had somewhat to say of his first campaign, under the immortal Winn in his famous and sanguinary "El Dorado war," in 1850. He has written up the murderous conflict in Nicaragua, and has given to the world an unvarnished picture of the "gray-eyed man," who deluged that fair country in blood and left her proud cities smouldering ruins. In the future he proposes, in his most truthful style, to give an account of some of the grand reviews, marches and countermarches, advances and retreats, of "the Great Western Napoleon," and will dilate largely on General Banks' grand cotton grabbing expedition up Red River, and will say a great deal about the grand and splendid strategic sparring by those two great masters in the art, Edward R. S. Canby and John Bankhead Magruder, with St. Louis as the stake played for. But the present page will be devoted to the last grand campaign of the warlike angels

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against the barbaric horde that had from the days of "Los Fundadores," made periodical predatory raids into this fair and fat land, for the purpose of stocking their ever depleted larders with sirloins and steaks cut fresh from our noble mustangs. The noble red men of the mountains and desert had worried the haughty Spaniard greatly, was sometimes pursued by him vigorously, was often spitted on the lance of the revengeful Spaniard, who objected to having his worldly wealth driven off and converted into mince pies by those aboriginal cooks, who did not even know the use of Chili peppers. The war between the Spaniard and the desert Indian was vindictive in the extreme; prisoners were seldom taken on either side, the Spaniard, well knowing that if taken alive, death by fire and torture awaited him. While on the other hand, the Indian, if captured, was subject to a fate not less cruel, that is to say, he was unceremoniously turned over to the gentle Mission priests, was duly baptized, taught the catechism converted into a first-class Christian and a most useful slave, and had his soul saved at the expense of his body. Lassoing converts was the most noble occupation of the time, and tradition gives the name and exploits of a certain devout friar, who earned a crown immortal by his success in capturing converts with the lasso and converting them with the lash.

The last aboriginal foray, and the first American pursuit, is to be the present task of this proud historian, who feels great pride in making known to the world that he served personally in a campaign so brilliant, so decisive, a pursuit so energetic, so rapid, so vindictive, as to ever after deter the barbarians from an attempt to steal mustangs from the descendants of Boone, Kenton and other great American backwoodsmen, who always killed an Indian before they skinned him.

To be brief and to the point (and brevity and pointedness are the greatest of all literary virtues), in the Spring of 1852, the Great Father, at the Capital of our great country, appointed

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our highly esteemed fellow-citizen, Don Benito Wilson, step-father to all the Indians hereabouts; and a good step-father, sure enough, was generous old Don Benito to his dusky proteges. Don Benito seemed to love all mankind. No doubt exists in the mind of this chronicler that Don Benito did love the whole human family; and Don Benito seemed to have a special love and regard for the red branch thereof--the poor Indian. He always had a smile, a kind word, and was wont to manifest his love for his charge in substantial gratuities. But one time Don Benito got mad at the Indians, and, like the immortal Washington, in his wrath he was terrible. Who can blame the kind-hearted Indian agent for getting mad at the Indians, when on their last grand raid into this happy valley the rascally redskins stole a great number of horses from Don Benito, and not even the hair of a horse did the ungrateful vagabonds of the desert steal from anybody else. The idea of Indians stealing horses from the only honest Indian agent possibly that ever breathed the foul air of the Indian Bureau--one who had never even contemplated or thought of the ease of making ten dollars out of a pair of two-dollar blankets! Don Benito, without doubt, was an out- and-out honest Indian agent, and the Indians that stole his horses, and passed through other men's herds to get at them, were the most ungrateful and rascally set of redskins that the bloody page of history gives any account of.

In May, 1853, just before the organization of the Ranger Company, the desert Indians came through the Soledad Pass, then over the rugged San Fernando mountains, rode past the many herds grazing in the San Fernando valley, came through the Cahuenga Pass, crossed the Brea Rancho, teeming with equine life, swept over the Rancho Rodeo de las Aguas, and raided Don Benito's ranch beyond, and retraced their steps by the way they came in, religiously respecting the rights of property in all others save Don Benito's. Certainly a strange freak of aboriginal human nature. When the raiders came in we were

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not exactly informed. They had been concealed in one of the canons of the Cahuenga range, had stolen the horses and departed on a Sunday night, and on Monday morning the news was brought in to the indignant agent, who called for volunteers to pursue and recapture his stolen property, and to properly chastise the ungrateful wretches. In two hours the Gringo element was astir. Ferocious looking warriors dashed up and down Main street, with an immense clatter of spurs, with comfortable-looking rolls of blankets substantially strapped on behind their saddles, which said blankets had been patriotically and gratuitously given by our generous merchants. Canteens were in great demand, and when a hero was fortunate enough to secure one, away he would dash to the "Bella Union" or the "Montgomery," where the canteen would be passed in to generous old Hodges, of the former place, or to the chivalrous Getman, of the latter, and the said canteens would be promptly returned to their respective owners, filled with something more efficacious on a campaign than holy water or cold tea. Moving an army is a slow business, moving volunteers is aggravatingly slow, and several times we mustered to march, and still some sluggard was not yet ready. So it must have been full one o'clock when we boldly marched forth with the determination fully expressed in the eagle eye of our Colonel--for be it known, gentle reader, that up to that campaign Don Benito had only been a simple Captain. It was on that grand and warlike occasion, I believe, that our gallant commander won his imaginary spread eagles. As before stated, we boldly marched forth with the determination fully expressed in the eagle eye of our Colonel, and brilliantly reflected by the eyes of all that gallant band, to skin Indians enough to supply the demand for razor straps for the next generation.

We marched out in "column of fours," the brave author forming a column with the lamented Billy Reader, Bill Jenkins and Cy. Lyon. A more gallant quartette, judging from our

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respective opinion of ourselves, never rode forth to uphold civilization or cut down an infidel. Cy. wanted to know if we thought we could scalp an Indian without dismounting. He said he could, and his red head looked redder. Poor Billy Reader said our commander was a Christian gentleman, and would not permit such barbarous acts. Bill Jenkins, who always had an eye to the substantial, said he had no intention of either killing or scalping, but he would like to capture about a dozen or so of stout young bucks, as he proposed to commence the planting and cultivation of a vineyard, and he begged us, his three comrades, to spare our prisoners for his sake.

In two hours we were at the Colonel's ranch, where we did ample justice to well-cooked beef, coffee and tortillas. We then made inquiry as to the number of mustangs stolen, and staked our horses out to graze, by which time the brilliant orb of day had gone quietly to rest behind those horrid hills of Santa Monica. The warriors concluded to rest their weary limbs and enjoy the bountiful hospitality of our brave and generous commander, and pass the night at the ranch. Of course our fiery chargers would be in better plight for a forced march on the morrow. So, with a repetition of beef, tortillas and coffee, the brave and determined band disposed of itself for the night, before comfortable camp fires, wrapped in the most comfortable blankets, to dream of victory on the morrow. The morrow came, of course, and with it the third repetition of beef, tortillas and coffee, which was discussed with as much solemnity as was the last supper of the brave Spartan band at the pass of Thermopylæ, when their profane captain informed them that it was quite probable they would breakfast in hell. This historian repeats that we ate a hearty breakfast, for the reason that each warrior well knew and evidently realized that we were going forth from the Valley of the Angels to do battle with the savage in the great desert beyond.

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We feasted like veterans; no confusion, no hurry; all coolness, except the coffee, which was deliciously hot. It must have been nine o'clock A.M. by the time our brave commander mustered his gallant band for the deliberately-planned pursuit. Our commander dispensed with the usual formality of a speech, but his manner was more eloquent than words. His unspoken words, which were mutely responded to by that heroic band of which this proud historian boasts of having been one, were: "We will let those rascally redskins know that they have no longer to deal with the Spaniard or the Mexican, but with the invincible race of American backwoodsmen, which has driven the savage from Plymouth Rock to the Rocky Mountains, and has headed him off here on the western shore of the continent, and will drive him back to meet his kindred fleeing westward, all to be drowned in the great Salt Lake."

Those were the noble sentiments that inspired this patriotic historian, and were participated in, of course, by all that devoted band on that martial occasion. We marched, we moved up that canon, known to-day as "Beach's Canon," until it grew quite narrow, when our cool-headed commander ordered a halt, and addressed himself to Billy Sandford, who was second in command of the expedition, and said: "I think we had better get out of this canon and on to the ridge." While thus halted he told us a story, while the command inspected canteens, many of which, on being shaken, emitted sounds unsatisfactory to a military ear. Our commander said that on the occasion or a former raid into the valley, the Indians were pursued by a party under Andres Pico, who followed them up a canon, and that the Indians concealed themselves in the chaparral, and after having permitted their pursuers to pass, attacked them in the rear, and tried to drive them ahead with their herd of stolen mustangs. Andres, however, objected to being driven forward, faced his command about, and desperately charged through the savages; and after having cut his

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way out, said to his subordinates, "Great God, what a magnificent escape." We all laughed heartily at the story, and our commander said he proposed to profit by the fortunate experience of the gallant Andres, and never lead an army into a canon. Canteens were duly passed, and each warrior gazed thoughtfully at the rugged hight above, and when this pious ceremony was over, our commander took the lead and commenced the laborious task of surmounting that ridge. Owing to the density of the chaparral the ascent was terribly difficult, and had the ridge been crowned with blazing batteries, as was the famous Lookout Mountain, I doubt if we had ever attained its rugged summit. However, after hours of scrambling, we not only surmounted the ridge, but in safety stood on the summit of the Cahuenga range and gazed on the magnificent San Fernando Valley, in all its beauty, like a great green carpet spread out before us, and the Valley of the Angels and the Pacific ocean in our rear. Two hours later, in the middle of the afternoon, we drew up in martial array before the hospitable castle of the lordly Don Vicente de la Osa, the baronial proprietor of the Rancho del Encino, who cordially invited us to dismount, stake our jaded mustangs and refresh the inner man, an invitation we joyfully acceded to, for the reason that the six mile march over those rugged hights had jaded the warrior as well as the war horse.

Mustangs staked, there commenced a doleful and disappointed shaking of canteens, which the jovial old Don Vicente observing, said, "Que le hace? aqui hay bastante." (What's the matter; there is plenty here.) And in the twinkling of an eye a demijohn was duly mustered in as a welcome reinforcement to our warlike party. For two hours more those redskin raiders had a respite from that vindictive, vigorous pursuit. At the end of the two hours, however, there had been the fourth repetition of beef, tortillas and coffee. Then we held a council of war, of which Don Vicente became the

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principal spokesman. He said the Indians had passed his ranch at about midnight; that at daylight on Monday morning they crossed the San Fernando mountains, and were just forty hours ahead of us; that they were evidently Owens River Indians, and well on their way to that desert fastness, and it would be folly to think of further successful pursuit. We had been two days on the march, were fifteen miles from our base of liquid supplies; the ammunition carried in our canteens was utterly exhausted. We had done all that invincible gringos could be expected to do. We felt sure that gringo prestige had not suffered, even if the contributors of blankets and liquid supplies had. That the Indian raiders had made a "magnificent escape," and that they had at least suffered a great scare, this last fact being duly verified by subsequent history, this being the first time they were ever pursued by the American conquerers, and this famous raid being the last ever made by the Indians into the Valley of the Angels.

It is with the greatest possible reverence I refer to the Mission Fathers, and their manner of dealing with the Indians. My opinion of and respect for those holy men is such that, feeling my matter-of-fact, prosaic style wholly inadequate for expression, I have therefore enlisted in that behoof my poetic friend, Albert Fenner Kercheval, and will finish this chapter with his lively poem.

THE PADRES OF OLD.

They were merry old fellows in cassock and gown,
Those jolly old knights of the smooth-shaven crown,
Those lion-souled, eagle-eyed Padres of Spain,
Who lorded it grandly o'er mountain and plain;
As ready with fair Senorita to dance
As grant absolution, or balance a lance;
Whose churches and missions impregnable stood,
And did to the heathen what seemed to them good;
They brought up proud sinners with sharp, sudden pulls,
And lassoed their converts like broncos and bulls,
Or gathered confessions from red, rosy lips,

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To hoard as the treasure the honey bee sips,
With hands that were ready and hearts that were bold:
How I envy those clean-shaven Padres of old!
With fair purple vineyards and wide-spreading flocks,
They sighed not for riches, they cared not for "stocks"--
Not "Comstocks," at least, though they bellowed and gored,
And fought for a "rise" at the Devil's "Big Board"
With a genuine reckless "Bonanza King's" greed,
And cornered the stock in eternity's "lead,"
Refusing all offers of Satan to sell
"Salvation's" sure stock, though they "shorted" on "Hell,"
And played for the kingdom, with Satan and sin,
When souls were the "divvys," and gathered them in;
With stores of frijoles and flagons of wine,
They craved not the treasures of city or mine;
With princely possessions to have and to hold,
They were bully old fellows--those Padres of old.

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IN MAY 1853, we had a very illustrious accession to our gringo element in the person of General O. B. Hinton, formerly of Ohio, and one of the great western orators of the early times. The General was accompanied by his wife, a most lusciously beautiful woman of about eighteen or twenty summers that seemed to have passed gently over her fair form and face. The General was rough and grizzled with the storms of over half a century of rugged western winters, and registered himself at the Star Hotel, as "Samuel B. Gordon and lady, Portland, Oregon," and at once gave out that he was an Oregon lawyer of lucrative practice, and had only sought our genial clime on account of the fair flower that accompanied him being too delicate to withstand the chill fogs and Siberian blasts of Oregon. In a brief space of time the General became proprietor of the hotel, in which he placed the "Royal Bengal Tiger," by name, Abdul Crib Mullah, as steward, and hung out his shingle as one of our pioneer attorneys, and was the first to file in our court a divorce suit. Everything seemed to flourish with the distinguished gentleman for a time. The Fourth of July rolled around in its usual way, and Samuel was the orator of

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the day. It so happened that we had one Dave Rhinehardt here, who had, in the prosperous days of the eminent gentleman, rendered service in the capacity of coachman, hostler, or something of the sort, and it still further happened that Samuel B. had, most unfortunately for himself, failed to pay Dave for the same service, and it still more unfortunately happened that the great Oregon lawyer was a great offender against the Government, and a fugitive from justice, and Dave knew all about it. So one morning while Samuel was trying our first divorce suit, that of Malcom vs. Malcom, the frail defendant being one of our fair California Spanish ladies who was proven to have played false to her marriage vow and to her noble gringo master. The elegant John H. Hughes was on the stand as a witness and had just sworn to his personal knowledge of the defendant's delinquency, when a Deputy United States Marshal laid heavy hands on the great fugitive and read to him his warrant of arrest. Talk about self possession, but I assure the reader on the honor of a veracious story- teller, that that lawyer showed no manner of trepidation, uneasiness or discomposure, but politely requesting the astonished official to excuse him until he had discharged his duty to his client, quietly resumed his case which was argued and submitted, and then he, with a polite apology to the officer for having kept him waiting placed himself at his disposition, was taken to the old adobe on the hill, was tenderly chained and staked out on that old historical pine log, and then the inquiry went like wildfire, "Who is he; what has he done?" And the arrest caused quite a stir among us gentle angels. It required about two days to learn all about the strange old man and his previous history, his crimes against the government; his arrest, escape and flight, and his final capture in the manner and place above described.

General O. B. Hinton was a distinguished Ohio politician, a great mail contractor, and owner of many stage lines in the western states, was a United States mail agent, and had

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succesfully robbed the mails without being suspected, for a succession of years, was at last suspected, decoyed and entrapped; was arrested and thrown in jail. His sons were men of means. The jailer was supposed to have been bribed, and the distinguished captive escaped, got on board a New Orleans steamer, from which he transhipped to a Havana steamer, and in safety walked the soil of the faithful isle. He was followed to New Orleans, and a steamer was chartered and pursued him to the harbor of Havana, but the great mail robber was safe for the time being under the crown of Spain. This occurred, I believe, in 1849 or 1850. The fact of his being so vigorously pursued gave him a bad notoriety in Cuba, and he was placed under surveillance. The Government secretly offered $40,000 for his arrest and delivery; he fled from Cuba and came to San Francisco, and the first man he met recognized him. Whither to flee he knew not. He saw a steamship with her smoke stacks emitting volumes of black smoke, and as soon as he could rid himself of his old acquaintance, he walked on board without inquiring the destination of the craft, which turned out to be Portland, Oregon, where he arrived and remained, went into business, prospered, married the fair creature who accompanied him, and continued in Portland until again recognized; took the steamer to San Francisco; and the steamer to Los Angeles being the first to leave, he came here as above stated. General Richardson, the United States Marshal, came here in person for the eminent ex-politician, appointed a squad of special deputies, of whom the pious writer was one, to convey him safely on board the steamer at San Pedro. The Marshal safely arrived in San Francisco with his important charge, and two days thereafter he, the mail robber, was on his way to the Sandwich Islands, having escaped the meshes of the law on a writ of habeas corpus. That was the last ever known of our illustrious quondam Fourth of July orator and hotel proprietor. His fair young

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wife eloped with a gambler and went to San Diego, which was the last known of her.

It transpired that Dave Rhinehardt interviewed the great fugitive, and promised if he would pay his past indebtedness his secret would be kept, and if not mistaken, I believe he paid Dave, who afterwards gave information to our convivial and warlike United States District Attorney. This incident has only been related to show what a great loss we sustained when the General was taken away from us. Generals were Generals in those days, and we deeply felt the great loss we sustained on that occasion. What eminence the General might have attained among the angels is hard to say. It is quite certain, however, that, had he remained and taken up with the noble trade of office-seeking, he might have attained eminent local distinction.

Speaking of Fourth of July celebrations, reminds me of the most particularly convivial one that this very patriotic historian ever participated in, which occurred at San Pedro in that memorable year 1853. That ancient commercial entrepot was larger then than at present, the founding of Wilmington not having as yet been projected by General Banning, its illustrious founder and patron. The glory of San Pedro, as that of imperial Rome, proud Venice and expectant San Diego, has departed, the author fears never to return; Carthage had her rival in Rome; San Pedro had a merciless rival in fair Wilmington, and now you behold a dilapidated sheep corral that seems to say in solemn silence, "Here stood San Pedro, the peerless."

San Pedro was at the time referred to a great place; it had no streets, for none were necessary. No prison admonished the evil-doer to give San Pedro a wide berth. No church invited the piously-inclined to seek religious consolation at the lively port. No! there was nothing of that sort, but the author solemnly asseverates that there was a liberty pole at San Pedro,

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from which proudly floated the Flag of Freedom. That there were two mud scows, a ship's anchor and a fishing boat, a multiplicity of old broken- down Mexican carts, a house, a large hay-stack and mule corral, and our old friend the gallant Laura Bevan, floating swan-like at her anchorage, on that beautiful Fourth of July.

Alexander and Banning administered the government at San Pedro at the time mentioned. Don George Alexander, he of the big heart, worthy brother of the generous Don David, a noble, whole-souled, true-hearted American, bursting and boiling over with love of country and patriotism; and ardent Phineas, who was not then even a captain, and did not dream of ever adorning his well-developed shoulders with stars plucked from the American constellation. Phineas Banning has, since that memorable '53, risen to the rank of General--an honest and well-merited distinction, merited if for no other service save the princely hospitality dispensed on our first national feast day above referred to, which he has continued to the present day. It is useless to say that Banning is still on hand on every patriotic occasion; but generous old Don Goorge, after a quarter of a century of usefulness spent among us betook himself to some other field of enterprise, and is, I believe, yet living, and may God speed him--for a truer patriot or better Christian never dwelt in the blessed land of the angels.

For a week or more the patriotic proprietors of San Pedro gave out by word of mouth, and published in both English and Spanish, a general invitation to the whole county and the counties adjoining, and to the world, including San Bernardino, then exclusively Mormon, San Diego and Mexico, to come to San Pedro and assist in the patriotic demonstrations to be then and there held. On the morning of the 3d, Alexander and Banning's stages left the Angels for San Pedro crowded with guests, and returned for another living freight; every imaginable

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conveyance to be found in the city, from Lanfranco's pioneer sulky to a Mexican cart, was pressed into service, and troops of gaily dressed and splendidly mounted caballeros, accompanied by light and airy equestriennes, were seen taking up their line of march to the place of promised festivities, while old Uncle Dave Anderson, boiling over with patriotic music, was seen going out of town prominently seated in a grand improvised music car, accompanied by the elite of our angelic musical world, while the whole country seemed to be on the move by noon of the 3d of July. The happy and light-hearted rancheros who, up to that time, knew not of trouble, hard times or oppresive taxation, turned out in force to assist their new-made kinsfolk, the liberty-loving Yankees, in celebrating the common birthday of liberty, and by the time the shades of evening fell on the patriotic city, 2,000 guests, of all ages, sexes and nationalities, had paid their respects to their liberal entertainers, who, until the evening of the 5th, dispensed a hospitality more than princely. It was superlatively royal. It was grand, full-handed and without stint.

That gallant old Yankee skipper, Captain Morton, put in an appearance several days prior to the Fourth with his beautiful little clipper the Laura Bevan, freighted with good things both edible and drinkable for the grand and hospitable occasion. The unpatriotic reader will naturally inquire where we all ate and slept when there was but one house in the city. Answering for one patriot, the author will say that he did not sleep during the time spent in merry-making, and as for eating, it was one perpetual eat. The long dining table was kept going every hour, night and day; the musicians and dancers relieved each other; those not engaged in eating or dancing were engaged in toasting, responding to toasts, speech- making or singing patriotic songs. A crowd of Americans roared "Hail Columbia," another crowd the "Star Spangled Banner" and "Yankee

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Doodle," a knot of gay Frenchmen made night melodious with the soul inspiring "Marseillaise," while the patriotic Mexican kept up the "Ponchada" and

"Marchamos Mexicanos,
Marchamos con valor,
Y viva la libertad."

In this manner we passed the night of the 3d. On the morning of the 4th a grand procession was formed with jovial old Judge Dryden on foot as Grand Marshal. Over a thousand patriots were in line. We did not march through the principal streets, but marched around and around the liberty pole, hurrahing and cheering all the time the gay flag of freedom that so proudly floated over us. The procession then formed a grand hollow square and each patriot was given a bottle of champagne with the cork started and a glass. When this disposition was made, Don George stepped out in front of the hollow square and requested the attention of the guests. Every man was silent attention. Then said patriotic Don George, and his words were duly interpreted into Spanish and French:

"Gentlemen, I will give a toast which when drank will be followed with three cheers. Gentlemen, here is to the President of the United States." Every man drank, and three immense cheers followed. Every man drank, and cheered except one, Tom--, he who pitted himself against old Dimmick in defense of the Rangers when arrested for cat-hauling the city Marshal heretofore referred to. Tom stood grim and silent until the cheering had subsided, when he deliberately smashed his bottle on the ground, tossed his glass to one side and swore he wouldn't drink to any d--d loco foco. Frank Pierce was President and Tom was a Whig. Not a word from that crowd of patriots; all was dignifiedly silent, and Don George, without so much as a ripple on his serene countenance, requested the grand Marshal to dismiss the parade. Don George was greatly annoyed, as the sequel will show, although

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too well bred to notice the breach of patriotic good breeding at the time, but two years thereafter he played even on Tom, as I will yet inform the reader. After the dismissal of the grand parade as above stated, Captain Morton announced his vessel as ready to give such as felt so disposed a sea trip, while the writer accompanied Don Juan Sepulveda to Dead Man's Island, to fire a national salute. Don Juan in the exuberance of his patriotism, had unearthed a venerable field piece which had enjoyed the silence of the grave since it had fired its last shot in defense of Mexican Territory. Captain Sepulveda mustered and embarked his command on a large boat and proceeded up Wilmington Bay, where he embarked his artillery and sailed for Dead Man's Island, where, after infinite labor, he succeeded in mounting his battery on the highest point of the island, and all being ready, we let loose such a thunder as was never exceeded by one gun. It seemed that we would wake the seven sleeping heroes who so quietly reposed on the little barren rock. Don Juan said the firing would serve a triple purpose, it would dissipate the last vestige of unfriendly feeling that may have lingered in the bosoms of the sons of the country towards the United States; that it would serve to express our gratitude to the great founders of modern liberty; and it would be an appropriate salute to the seven brave mariners who lost their lives in their country's service, and after the first salvo, and while paying our respects to our liquid ammunition, Don Juan proceeded to tell us how the seven sailors came to be killed. Their wooden head-boards stood in line in front of us. Said Don Juan: "El Comodoro (meaning Commodore Mervine, U. S. Navy), made his advance on Los Angeles. He made his first halt at Dominguez' Ranch, and camped for the night. In the morning he took up his line of march, with the Californian horsemen in front, flank, and rear. The Californians, poorly armed, mostly with lances, had an extravagant idea of Yankee prowess, and

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kept at a safe distance until the Commodore had reached a point near Compton, when we commenced to harass him. We had this same gun mounted on a Mexican carreta, and at the first discharge, shiver and down went one of the wheels, and the gun being practically dismounted, our General (Carrillo) ordered it to be abandoned, which was being done when one Higuera left the ranks of horsemen and swore that if the Yankees go the gun it would be over his dead body. With his own hand, unaided he loaded it just in time to let drive at the head of the Yankee column and killed seven men, "estos mismos" (these same). The heroism of Higuera so inspired the Californians that they rushed in and bodily dragged the gun away with their lazos, and then so vigorously assailed the invaders that they were forced to fall back, carrying these poor fellows with them, and were glad to get safely on board their marine fortress. The old gun was subsequently buried near my house, and after a nap of six years, here it is, and here am I, and others who dragged it away at the time; and here we are, all of us, the old gun, the old enemies, now friends; and here is brave Higuera, firing a salute of honor over our former foes, who fell in battle. What do you say, boys? Up, Higuera! "Viva Los Estados Unidos!" "Viva Mexico Somos Amigos!"

The author feels great satisfaction in informing the reader that brave Higuera, a true hero, can be seen at any time on our streets, a quite old man, that one would not suspect of ever having had the courage, single- handed and alone, to face an army of gringos. Napoleon, for the act, would have conferred on him the "Cross of the Legion of Honor."

The music and festivities kept up all day, all night, and most of the day of the 5th; but during that day, sleepy and worn out patriots wended their way to Los Angeles; and so ended this grand and patriotic affair.

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About two years thereafter a convention met in Los Angeles to nominate county officers. Don George was a delegate, and Tom--was a candidate for Sheriff.

Tom met Don George with all the winning smiles of a candidate, and said: "Don George, I am a candidate, as you are aware, and of course can count on your vote."

"No, sir, you cannot," said Don George, emphatically.

"Why, Don George, what can be the matter? I am astonished; pray explain."

"Well, Mr. Tom--, I hope I may forever lose my rights as an American freeman when I give my vote to any man who would refuse to drink to the President of the United States on a Fourth of July. Good day, Mr. Tom--; I am not your man."

One more anecdote of Tom.

In 1856 Tom--was a Deputy U.S. Marshal under McDuffie, and a crowd of Los Angeles men, including Tom, were the guests of old man Armstrong of the revered St. Nicholas at San Francisco. Tom broke his cane and gave it to an itinerant tinker to be fixed; the cane was duly fixed and returned but not paid for. The day following the tinker dunned Tom, in the presence of other gentlemen, for four bits, and for his audacity was knocked down by Tom with a chair. Tom was arrested and duly appeared before the Police Court for trial. When called up, Tom said: "Judge, is there any law against a United States Deputy Marshal knocking a Dutchman down?"

Now it so happened that the great Vigilance Committee was in session at San Francisco, and it still further happened that Old Coon was Police Judge, and Old Coon had an idea that a Dutchman had rights in this country that even a United States Marshal was under obligations to respect; so Old Coon said, "Mr. Clerk, enter a fine of $20 against Mr.--for contempt of Court."

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Said Tom: "Well, by--Judge, that's kind of rough."

"Enter a fine of $40 against Mr.--for contempt of Court."

"Well," said Tom, somewhat bewildered, "Judge, how is this, I want to know?"

"Mr. Clerk, enter a fine of $10 against Mr.--. Now, Mr.--what have you to say about this assault and battery?"

"Guilty, sir, guilty," said Tom desperately, "but may it please the Court, that is not law in Los Angeles."

"Fine you $10, sir, and advise you to return to Los Angeles."

A quarter of a century glided by and the author, in his professional capacity of attorney, had been employed to procure a United States patent to a Mexican grant belonging to many owners, all of whom agreed to contribute their pro rata of expense in the matter, except one, a tall, middle-aged woman, who maintained that she, for twenty-five years, had a patent to her part of the land in question. That an officer from Washington had personally placed it in her hand, and that it bore the great red seal of the Government. When this information was given, the lady informed the author that on a future visit she would show it to me and hoped I would be satisfied. After a while the fair possessor of the Government patent came into my office with "Ahora Veras," "Now, sir, see," and she drew forth from a bundle of faded calico a formidable looking document which, on inspection, proved to be a certified copy of a decree of divorce in Malcom vs. Malcom.