Unsigned, The Life of Joaquin Murieta the Brigand Chief of California; Being A Complete History of His Life, from the Age of Sixteen to the Time of his Capture and Death at the Hands of Capt. Harry Love, in the Year 1853. San Francisco: Published at Office of the “California Police Gazette,” 1859. Pgs. 6–7, 15–16, 16–17, 21, 70–71.
This unsigned, plagiarized version of Ridge’s novel circulated much more widely than the original. Serialized in the California Police Gazette, a weekly publication featuring stories of sensational crimes, The Life of Joaquin Murieta the Brigand Chief of California became the basis of numerous translations and reworkings of the story, including Ireneo Paz’s Vida y aventuras del más célebre bandido sonorense, Joaquín Murrieta (1904).
The following passage, which recounts Murieta’s first revenge killing, adds a long, stylized monologue in which Murieta justifies his crime by recalling the murder of his beloved (named Carmela, not Rosita, in this version).
“What—what means this?” gasped the victim as he sank to the ground, “why do you murder me? oh! mercy—spare my life.”
“You showed no mercy to me,” replied Joaquin, “when you assisted in tying and lashing me in the presence of a multitude of people. When, in the proud consciousness of your strength, and supported by the brute force of some of your own countrymen, you seized upon an innocent man—a man—with heart and soul, and all the noble attributes received from his Maker—a man possessed of more truth and honor than could have been found among those who helped to torture him; when you seized him and bound him, and scored his back with the ignominious lash, you did not then think of mercy. When your countrymen hung my brother by the neck like a dog, was there any mercy shown him? When they cruelly murdered my heart’s dearest treasure, in my own presence and almost before my eyes; and when she must, with her silvery voice, have faintly appealed for mercy, was that appeal heeded by the inhuman wretches? Ah! my brain is on fire!” he added, pressing his left hand to his forehead, while with the other he inflicted another wound.
“Murder!” muttered the doomed man, raising himself upon his elbow and staring with wild, glassy eyes upon the savage features of the desperado, “Oh! mercy—mer—,” but the steel had now entered his heart and he fell back a corpse.
Again and again was the knife plunged into the body, until the latter was almost hacked to pieces, for the demon of revenge possessed the soul of Joaquin and urged him to excess.
“Now, thus have I commenced this work of death!” he hissed through his closed teeth, as he drew himself up to his full height and gazed upon the blue expanse above him, while from the weapon in his outstretched hand still dripped the crimson fluid, “thus have I lain one of my base oppressors at my feet, and having so initiated my hand and heart, shall know no rest nor peace until every one of them is blotted from the earth; and oh! dearest Carmela, you whose spirit I believe is even now hovering over me, you too shall be terribly avenged; my arm is nerved for the work of destruction, and the life-blood of the Americans shall flow as freely as the mountain stream.”
The following passage substitutes Guerro’s story about fighting alongside the Mexican guerrilla Padre Jurata for Valenzuela’s story from Ridge’s novel (see pages 63–65). Whereas Valenzuela recounts a daring escape from an ambush by American soldiers, the California Police Gazette depicts Jurata’s men as the aggressors who ambush and kill a group of American soldiers so impetuously that Jurata accidentally decapitates one of his own followers.
“Well, comrades,” resumed Guerro, “as you seem to be very anxious to know as much as possible about the old priest, I’ll relate the adventure for the benefit of those among us who have not had the pleasure of serving under him. Well, you see, one night the Padre and myself and twenty-five others were jogging along on our mustangs at an easy trot, and had just entered a thick chaparral in order to make a short cut to a watering-place, when Jurata observed a thin, light colored smoke curling up into the air, at about a quarter of a mile ahead of us. ‘Halt and dismount!’ he suddenly exclaimed, ‘remove your spurs, tie your horses, and follow me in silence,’ at the same moment sliding from his own saddle, he unbuckled his jingling silver heel-trappings, and with an impatient wave of his hand, darted through the thicket. With quick and noiseless step we bounded after our leader, our hearts beating with anxious desire for blood and booty, and our hands ready to execute any and every order of the fearless padre. On we went, through tangled brush, drawing nearer and nearer to the slowly rising column of smoke, till at length we reached the bank of a deep and gloomy looking gulch, through which a noisy stream was leaping and sparkling in the moonlight. On looking down, Santa Maria! what a scene met our delighted vision. Around the smouldering embers of a few half-burned logs, lay a score of men, covered with the heavy, coarse blue overcoats of the American army. Their muskets were stacked at a short distance from them, and all unconscious of danger, they were resting from the fatigue, perhaps, of a long and toilsome march. Like serpents we glided down, and at a signal from Jurata, sprang upon them with our knives. Caramba! how they did squirm, and kick, and yell! ‘Finish them speedily!’ shouted the padre, while he himself humped from one to another, sheathing his dripping blade in the bodies of the dead as well as the living, and in a perfect frenzy of excitement severing the neck-joints and casting the gaping heads into the rushing water. It was a glorious affair, paysanos, and was only marred by a single unfortunate incident. One of our men, a brave fellow who possessed great influence in the band, had thoughtlessly enwrapped himself in one of the dead men’s coats, and Jurata, mistaking him for an American, with a sudden and violent plunge of his huge bowie-knife, stretched him lifeless at his feet. The mistake was only discovered when the padre, holding the ghastly head for an instant in the dim rays of the moon, previous to hurling it into the stream, saw the large, black, glassy eyes of Francisco, gazing full upon him. ‘Holy Virgin!’ he shouted, ‘what have I done!’ and jumping back to the body, he tore open the coat and beheld the well known form of one of his bravest followers. ‘Oh, fool! fool!’ he added, ‘you have well deserved your fate for encasing yourself in that hated garment, and were it possible, I would punish you with a thousand deaths;’ and after burying his bloody knife several times in the inanimate breast of Francisco, he led the way back to where the animals were picketed, and solemnly resumed the journey.”
“A lively story,” said Joaquin, “and if the padre, Heaven rest his soul! were alive now, I would send for him, and resign to him the command of my brave little army.”
In the following passage and others, the California Police Gazette exaggerates the anti-Chinese violence depicted in Ridge’s novel. Here, Three-Fingered Jack orchestrates the torture and killing of Chinese miners as an “entertainment” for Murieta’s followers (and implicitly for readers as well). And in this version, Murieta and his men are all complicit in Three-Fingered Jack’s brutal killings, and his lover is named Clarina, not Rosita.
Three-Fingered Jack at this moment reappeared, driving before him no less than eight terrified Celestials, who on finding themselves in the presence of so many armed men, fell upon their knees, and in a by no means euphonious tongue, pleaded for mercy. Their lugubrious supplications, rolling eyes, and general ridiculous appearance, only excited the merriment of the band, who made the woods echo and re-echo with long and loud peals of laughter. The poor Chinamen were then ordered by the captor, by words and signs, to change their position and seat themselves against a rocky ledge, a few feet from the fire. The order was obeyed with considerable alacrity, and Three-Fingered Jack, after brandishing his knife over their heads, and telling them “if they moved he would cut their hearts out,” again commenced upon the sardines and crackers with a good appetite.
“Ah!—Jack, mi amigo,” said Joaquin, “how came this fresh blood upon the blade of your knife?”
“Well, I was obliged to kill one of the rascals, before I could bring the others to terms; but as soon as they saw the fellow laid out, one of them with a little more instinct than the rest, took the lead, and like sheep, the balance followed, and so I drove them up.”
“And now that they are here, what do you intend to do with them?” inquired Antonio.
“Why, kill them like sheep, of course.”
“Better do it at once then,” suggested Feliz, “for they are half frightened to death already.”
“Oh, they’ll keep,” replied Jack, glaring ferociously at his prisoners, “I brought them for the amusement of the company, but must finish my supper before I begin the entertainment. I have adopted the American maxim of ‘business before pleasure.’”
After a lapse of fifteen minutes, which had been passed by Jack in eating and by the other bandits in smoking, the former jumped towards the Chinamen, and tying seven of them together by their cues [sic], brought the eighth close to the fire, some of the band having moved a little aside to make room.
“Stop! stop! Jack,” said Guerro, “you are not going to burn him—we can’t stand that on a sardine stomach!”
“Oh, no, I’ve only brought him up close, so that you can the better witness the performance;” and drawing his knife, he drove it with powerful force into the heart of the trembling Celestial; then instantly withdrawing the weapon, he supported the victim with both hands, while a stream of blood spurted out and partly extinguished the fire.
“Carrajo!” exclaimed one of the men, “you are spattering me all over.”
“And putting out the fire too;” said another.
“Come, Jack, let us have no more of this,” rejoined Joaquin, impatiently, “such cruelty is disgusting and sickening; dispatch them at once, where they are, and have done with it.”
“Oh, very well; as you like, Capitan; I thought the company wanted some amusement; but I shall now have all the pleasure to myself;” and after dragging away the corpse and throwing it carelessly down, Garcia leaped upon the other captives, and despite their screams, entreaties, and struggles, proceeded leisurely to cut their throats one after the other.
Previous to the killing of the first, the three females had drawn their serapes over their heads, unwilling to witness the fiendish act, and trembling with affright at the idea of being made accessory to the murder of so many helpless beings. Clarina, who was seated by the side of the bandit chief, had heard his order to dispatch the prisoners and with a true feeling of compassion, attempted to save the remainder from their horrid fate. Without uncovering her face she leaned her head upon her lover’s shoulder and exclaimed in a voice tremulous with emotion:
“Ah, Joaquin, why do you not prevent this terrible slaughter—this unnecessary destruction of human life. Hear those despairing cries! those shrieks for mercy! you have power—will you not stay the murderer’s hand?”
“Alas! dearest, I cannot; Garcia is impetuous and cruel, and it was only to gratify his unquenchable thirst for blood that he joined the band; but he is brave even to recklessness, and I can ill afford to lose him.”
“Then their doom is sealed,” murmured Clarina.
“It is, and I pity them from my very heart. Listen! there are now but two voices pleading, and now—only one, and that is suddenly stifled. The work is done, and they no longer suffer.”
“Ha! Murieta,” exclaimed Three-Fingered Jack, as he reseated himself in front of the fire, “by all the saints! This has been a glorious night for me; what a delightful time I have had with those wretches, and how little they resisted. San Miguel! what a luxurious feast of blood!”
This passage, in which Three-Fingered Jack helps accomplish Murieta’s revenge for the rape and murder of Carmela, reiterates Murieta’s reliance on his associate’s bloodthirsty nature.
The travelers had passed on a few yards, and were walking along at an easy gait, with no apprehension of danger, when the simultaneous report of four pistols rang upon the air, and three of the doomed men fell apparently in the agonies of death. The fourth being only slightly wounded, turned to look upon the assailants.
“Ha! Americano! do you know me? I am Joaquin!” cried the bandit chief, and firing three shots in quick succession, sent forth a long, loud whoop of joyful satisfaction as he saw the man sink lifeless by the side of his companions.
“Now! Jack,” he continued, pointing to the bodies, “this time I not only give you permission, but I command you, to exercise your natural propensity. Some of them may be still alive; at any rate, their blood is not yet cold.”
Three-Fingered Jack had started at the first word of his leader, and was already half-way across, wading in the muddy stream to his arm pits. In another minute, he clambered up to the opposite bank and commenced his horrid work. With a shout of exultation he discovered that two of the men were not mortally wounded, but still so disabled as to make escape impossible; and heedless of their cries and struggles, the demon slowly disemboweled them, and finished the sickening scene by cutting out their hearts.
When Three-Fingered Jack returned to the tent, he inquired the cause of the chief’s particular hatred towards those men.
“Jack,” replied Joaquin, “three of them were of the party who murdered my Carmela and drove me from my home in the mines. Who the other man was I know not; but he deserved his fate for being found in such company.”
The final pages of the California Police Gazette edition reprint a poster and two affidavits connected with the exhibition of Murieta’s head. While this apparently affirms the finality of Murieta’s alleged death, the novel goes on to recount further raids by Murieta’s men and the mysterious deaths of the men who bought and sold his head at auction.
The head was then placed on exhibition, in order to give the public an opportunity to see and judge for themselves; and the following advertisement informed them where the horrid trophy could be found.
JOAQUIN’S HEAD
IS TO BE SEEN
AT KING’S!
Corner Halleck and Sansome streets,
opposite the American Theatre.
Admission.. . . ... . . ... . . . . One Dollar
_______________________________
The following were among the many affidavits, certificates, etc., proving the identity of the head:
SS.
STATE OF CALIFORNIA,
County of San Francisco.
Ignacio Lisarrago, of Sonora, being duly sworn, says: That he has seen the alleged head of Joaquin, now in the possession of Messrs. Nuttall and Black, two of Capt. Love’s Rangers, on exhibition at the saloon of John King, Sansome street. That deponent was well acquainted with Joaquin Murieta, and that the head exhibited as above, is and was the veritable head of Joaquin Murieta, the celebrated bandit.
(Signed,) IGNACIO LISARRAGO.
Sworn to before me, this 17th day of August, A. D. 1853.
CHARLES D. CARTER,
Notary Public.
_______________________________
SS.
STATE OF CALIFORNIA,
County of San Joaquin.
On this, the 11th day of August, 1853, personally came before me, A. C. Baine, a Justice of the Peace for said county, the Rev. Father Dominie Blaive, who makes oath, in due form of law, that he was acquainted with the notorious robber, Joaquin; that he has just examined the captive’s head, now in the possession of Capt. Conner, of Harry Love’s Rangers, and that he verily believes the said head to be that of the individual Joaquin Murieta, so known by him two years ago, as before stated.
D. BLAIVE.
Sworn to and subscribed before me, the day aforesaid.
A. C. Baine, J. P.
_______________________________
The head, which for a long time retained a very natural appearance, was identified in every part of the State, wherever it was exhibited. The hand of Three-Fingered Jack was shown in another glass case at the same time, and some superstitious persons were not a little terrified on observing that the nails of the hand had grown nearly an inch since it was cut off.
After a thorough identification, the Governor of the State, Col. John Bigler, caused to be paid to Capt. Love the sum of one thousand dollars, which in his official capacity he had offered for the bandit, dead or alive. And subsequently on the 15th of May, 1854, the Legislature of California, considering that his truly valuable services, in ridding the country of so great a terror, were not sufficiently rewarded, passed an act granting him an additional sum of five thousand dollars.
Thus briefly and truthfully, have been sketched the crimes and exploits of the most daring robber that ever existed. During his short and bloody career, he displayed qualities of mind and heart, which marked him as an extraordinary man; and the truly wonderful success which attended him in all his undertakings, is without a parallel in the criminal calendar of the world.
Although the death of Joaquin was a severe blow to the robbers, and eventually caused their disbandment, they still continued their depredations in small parties and without any leaders; and for some time carried on their robberies and murders with such untiring determination of purpose, as to cause serious doubts of the decapitation of the real Joaquin.
A young man by the name of Mark T. Howe, aged about twenty-two years, left his cabin on the 10th of August to find a horse, and visit a neighboring camp. His partners, thinking he had gone, no suspicion was excited until the 14th, when the person he was going to visit came to see him. His friends then became alarmed and instituted a search, when his body was found about three-quarters of a mile from his cabin, just back of Albany Flat, between Angel’s Camp and Carson’s Creek. He had been shot in the head and then lassoed; and the body had been dragged by the neck about fifty feet and secreted in the chaparral bushes, after being robbed of three or four hundred dollars.
Another man was found murdered soon after, below Robinson’s Ferry on the Stanislaus river. Some of the bandits had been seen around there just previous, and had gone north to San Antonio. These bandits were Sevalio and five others, who were committing depredations along by San Antonio, El Dorado and the Mountain Ranch.
At San Andreas, on the 15th of August, a Mexican, who had for a long time lent constant aid to the Americans in detecting horse thieves, received caution that the band of Murieta intended to have his life for betraying them to the Americans, and distinctly described one of the gang who was deputed to assassinate him, and advised him to be on his guard. Accordingly on the day mentioned as the intended victim was quietly amusing himself with a game of cards, the assassin and robber entered the room, and was observed to have his hand upon his pistol. Thus was instantly perceived by the Mexican, who dropped his cards saying, “I cannot play any more,” and went into another room. Procuring a long knife, he went directly up to the bandit, challenged him with his intention, and before he could use his pistol, plunged his knife through and through him. The Mexican then delivered himself up to Judge Taliaferro, who, on hearing satisfactory evidence to substantiate the above, discharged him.
Some time in 1854, the head of the bandit was sold by Deputy Sheriff Harrison, under an attachment for debts contracted by the person in whose charge it had been placed for exhibition.
It was offered at public sale, and while the bids were being made, an Irishman with considerable indignation exclaimed:
“Oh! bad luck to you for selling your fellow man’s head. Sure and you’ll never have any good luck as long as you live!”
The bids at this point had run up to $63, and the salesman, struck somewhat aback by the remark just made, suddenly brought down the hammer at that price.
Harrison subsequently committed suicide; and the purchaser, a gunsmith known as “Natchez” was accidentally killed some time afterwards, by leaving a loaded pistol in a show case.
In writing the history of this notorious robber, facts have been given, and though perhaps colored, they are nevertheless facts, which thousands who are now residents of the State, are cognizant of, and in reading, have no doubt had many events brought vividly to their minds which transpired in the localities where they were in the years ’51, ’52, and ’53. But little doubt exists in the writer’s mind that many persons who are mentioned in the advertisements headed “Information Wanted,” and emanating, perhaps, from a mother enquiring for her son, or a wife for her husband, have been the victims of the bandit Joaquin.
John R. Ridge, The Life and Adventures of Joaquin Murieta the Celebrated California Bandit. Revised and enlarged by the author, the late John R. Ridge. In The Lives of Joaquin Murieta and Tiburcio Vasquez: The California Highwaymen. Third edition. San Francisco: F. MacCrellish & Co. 1874 [1871]. Pgs. 3, 5–6, 7–8, 17–19, 33–34.
Ridge’s preface to the posthumously published “third” (actually the second) edition of his novel claims that his own “revised and enlarged” edition is motivated by a desire to correct the “crude interpolations” of plagiarized editions such as the California Police Gazette’s.
“Author’s Preface to the Present Edition”: The continued and steady demand for the “Life and Adventures of Joaquin Murieta” induces the author to issue a third edition, revised and enlarged, according to the scope of additional facts, the knowledge of which has been acquired since the publication of preceding editions. This would seem to be the more necessary, as a matter of justice both to the author and the public, inasmuch as a spurious edition has been foisted upon unsuspecting publishers and by them circulated, to the infringement of the author’s copyright and the damage of his literary credit—the spurious work, with its crude interpolations, fictitious additions and imperfectly disguised distortions of the author’s phraseology, being by many persons confounded with the original performance.
Ridge’s enlarged edition includes additional details about Murieta’s courtship of Rosita in Sonora.
The first considerable interruption in the general smooth current of his existence, occurred in the latter portion of his seventeenth year. Near the rancho of his father resided a “packer,” one Feliz, who, as ugly as sin itself, had a daughter named Rosita. Her mother was dead, and she, although but sixteen, was burdened with the responsibility of a housekeeper in their simple home, for her father and a younger brother, whose name will hereafter occasionally occur in the progress of this narration. Rosita, though in humble circumstances, was of Castilian descent, and showed her superior origin in the native royalty of her look and general dignity of her bearing. She was of that voluptuous order to which so many of the dark-eyed daughters of Spain belong, and the rich blood of her race mounted to cheeks, lips and eyes. Her father doted upon and was proud of her, and it was his greatest happiness, on returning from occasional packing expeditions through the mountains of Sonora (he was simply employed by a more wealthy individual) to receive the gentle ministries of his gay and smiling daughter. Joaquin having nothing to do but ride his father’s horses, and give a general superintendence to the herding of stock upon the rancho, was frequently a transient caller at the cabin of Feliz, more particularly when the old man was absent, making excuses for a drink of water or some such matter, and prolonging his stay for the purpose of an agreeable chit-chat with the by no means backward damsel. She had read of bright and handsome lovers, in the stray romances of the day, and well interpreted, no doubt, the mutual emotions of loving hearts. Indeed Nature herself is a sufficient instructor, without the aid of books, where tropic fire is in the veins, and glowing health runs hand in hand with the imagination. It was no wonder, then, that the youthful Joaquin and the precocious and blooming Rosita, in the absence, on each side, of all other like objects of attraction, should begin to feel the presence of each other as a necessity. They loved warmly and passionately. The packer being absent more than half the time, there was every opportunity for the youthful pair to meet, and their intercourse was, with the exception of the occasional intrusion of her brother Reyes, a mere boy, absolutely without restraint. Rosita was one of those beings who yield all for love, and, ere, she took time to consider of her duties to society, to herself, or to her father, she found herself in the situation of a mere mistress to Joaquin. Old Feliz broke in at last, upon their felicity, by a chance discovery. Coming home one day from a protracted tour in the mountains, he found no one in the cabin but his son Reyes, who told him that Rosita and Joaquin had gone out together on the path leading up the little stream that ran past the dwelling. Following up the path indicated, the old man came upon the pair, in a position, as Byron has it in the most diabolical of his works, “loving, natural and Greek.” His rage knew no bounds, but Joaquin did not tarry for its effects. On the contrary, he fled precipitately from the scene. Whether he showed a proper regard for the fair Rosita in so doing, it is not our province to discuss. All we have to do is state what occurred, and leave moral discrepancies to be harmonized as they best may. At any rate, the loving girl never blamed him for his conduct, for she took the earliest opportunity of a moonlight night, to seek him at his father’s rancho, and throw herself into his arms.
About this time, Joaquin had received a letter from a half brother of his, who had been a short time in California, advising him by all means to hasten to that region of romantic adventure and golden reward. He was not long in preparing for the trip. Mounted upon a valuable horse, with his mistress by his side upon another, and with a couple of packed mules before him, laden with provisions and necessaries, he started for the fields of gold. His journey was attended with no serious difficulties, and the trip was made with expedition.
Ridge’s revisions produced a more graphic account of the assault on Murieta and Rosita—one in which Rosita fights back against their attackers.
[ . . . ] As might have been expected, the young Mexican indignantly remonstrated against such an outrage. He had learned to believe that to be an American was to be the soul of honor and magnanimity, and he could hardly realize that such a piece of meanness and injustice could be perpetrated by any portion of a race whom he had been led so highly to respect. His remonstrations only produced additional insult and insolence and finally a huge fellow stepped forward and struck him violently in the face. Joaquin, with an ejaculation of rage, sprang toward his bowie-knife, which lay on the bed near by where he had carelessly thrown it on his arrival from work, when his affrighted mistress, fearing that his rashness, in the presence of such an over-powering force might be fatal to him, frantically seized and held him. At this moment his assailant again advanced, and, rudely throwing the young woman aside, dealt him a succession of blows which soon felled him, bruised and bleeding, to the floor. Rosita, at this cruel outrage, suddenly seemed transformed into a being of a different nature, and herself seizing the knife, she made a vengeful thrust at the American. There was fury in her eye and vengeance in her spring, but what could a tender female accomplish, against such ruffians? She was seized by her tender wrists, easily disarmed, and thrown fainting and helpless upon the bed. Meantime Joaquin had been bound hand and foot by others of the party, and, lying in that condition he saw the cherished companion of his bosom deliberately violated by these very superior specimens of the much vaunted Anglo-Saxon race!
In this interpolated passage, Ridge depicts a frontierswoman whose skills at riding, roping, and shooting—in addition to her independent and vengeful character—approximate those of Joaquin and his men.
Residing in the vicinity of Hamilton was a hunter, who was known by the simple name of “Peter.” He was half Wyandot and half French, and had two daughters, aged respectively eighteen and sixteen. Old Peter was probably the most honest man in all that section of country. Ever since the death of his wife—half French and half Wyandot like himself—which had happened in Iowa many years before the time of his introduction to the reader, he had followed the life of a trapper and hunter, taking his two girls along with him. He had remained some years in the Rocky Mountains, and thence had ranged down by gradual removes, into California. He had horses, a heavy tent, plenty of clothing, and a purse he earned solely by hunting, there being a good cash market for all the venison and bear meat which he could furnish. Peter prided himself upon two things, his own honesty and the virtue of his daughters. They were very handsome girls, and, although trained up in the wilderness, yet they had sufficiently trod the confines of civilization to know something of the refining effects. Besides, their father was by no means a savage, having received the rudiments of a French education in his youth, and having mingled with the better class of the border citizens of the United States to an extent which enabled him to speak pretty good English, and to act very much like a white man. But the Indian instinct was strong, both in himself and his daughters, the elder of whom was a dead shot with the rifle and a splendid rider, after the fashion of Indian women, to wit astraddle. She had learned also to thrown the lasso, and had more than once brought into camp wild elks, lassoed around the horns and towed at her saddle bow. Strange as this may seem, it is literally true, and there are many persons now living in California who remember the girl and her feats[. . . .]
A couple of the bandits were one morning galloping over the plain, in the direction of a band of loose horses, with a view of lassoing one or two of them, when a huge elk rapidly crossed the line of their progress. The animal was making the best speed he could, and well he might, for not more than fifty yards behind there came thundering after him a mounted figure, with disheveled hair and eager eyes and urgent pressings of the pursuing steed. It was the old hunter’s daughter, lasso in hand enjoying her favorite pastime of elk-chasing. It may well be conjectured that the bandits were somewhat astonished at this unusual sight, for they had never seen or heard of this extraordinary maiden before. Neither the elk nor the girl paid any attention to them, but dashed on, pursued and pursuing. The robbers, exhilarated by the spectacle, put spurs to their horses and followed in the chase. Onward sped the wild hunter for a mile or more, till now she gains upon the panting beast, reaches within twenty or thirty feet of him, whirls the adjusted loop around and around her head to give it impetus and lets loose the springing coil. Forth it flies on its lengthened mission, and the noose drops down over the branching horns. The well-trained mustang stops short in his tracks, the cord tightens at the saddle-bow, and the flying elk, suddenly jerked backward, falls heavily to the ground. With a shout of applause the robbers recognize the capture and rein their chargers to the spot. Addressing the girl in Spanish, they found she spoke English, and so conversed with her moderately well in that language. The elk being somewhat refractory, they politely offered to help her home with it, and did so, driving it forward while she galloped on ahead. Arriving at her father’s camp, it was courtesy to ask the strangers to alight and refresh themselves. They partook of the wholesome repast spread before them by the younger sister, and had finished their last cup of coffee, when old Peter entered. He looked at his new-found guests with a degree of suspicion, and saluted them but coldly. He took no apparent interest in the rehearsal of his daughter’s adventure, and, when the strangers arose to depart he did not ask them to call again. One of them, however, the smooth spoken and graceful Claudio, did call the next day, and old Peter peremptorily ordered him away. There was something in the old man’s look that even as brave a scoundrel as Claudio did not like unnecessarily to parley with, and thinking “discretion the better part of valor,” he left. Old Peter, it seems, knew instinctively that he was a rascal, and was not disposed to waste any ceremonious courtesy upon him.
After the expiration of a few days, the young Diana concluded to ride over into the woods that skirt Butter Creek, a clear, pebbly-bottomed stream that empties into the Feather River, some distance above Hamilton. She took her rifle with her—a small-bored silver-mounted piece, with an elegant curly maple stock—thinking that she would bring in a number of gray squirrels with which the grounds abounded, for the purpose of converting them into a pot-pie. The sharp crack of her rifle was the death-knell of many an “adjidaumo,” and soon, with a string of the bushy-tailed “varmints,” at her saddle-bow, she grew weary of the sport, and reclined for a brief rest upon a plot of dry grass underneath an oak tree, leaving her docile pony to feed at his discretion in the neighborhood. It was not long before she fell asleep. How long she had slumbered she could not say, but she was suddenly awakened by a strong pressure upon her wrists, and opening her eyes in a fuller consciousness, she found herself in the grasp of a powerful man. It was the late companion of Claudio, in the matter of the elk adventure and the subsequent repast at old Peter’s camp. The villain had secured the girl’s wrists with a piece of cord, and now held a knife at her throat, threatening to kill her instantly if she dared to scream out. Nevertheless she did scream, until a gag was thrust into her mouth by a second party whom she had not until then discovered, and who proved to be Claudio. The two were proceeding to drag the terrified girl into an adjacent thicket, rendered well nigh impervious by a mazy entanglement of wild pea vines, when a horseman dashed up, and cocking his revolver, commanded the rascals to desist. The girl was surprised to see that they instantly obeyed. She was unbound, her rifle restored to her and her pony led to where she was standing. After she was mounted, and on the point of departing, her strange rescuer rode closely up to her and said:
“Young woman, you’ve heard of Joaquin Murieta. I’m the man. When you hear people abusing me, hereafter, perhaps you’ll think I’m not quite so big a scoundrel as they say I am, after all. Now, hurry home, before some other danger overtakes you.”
With a grateful heart, the maiden bade him adieu, and galloped off. When at a distance of about a hundred yards, the group still gazing at her, she suddenly halted, and turned around as if to come back, but stood still, facing them. While they were wondering what on earth she could be at, they soon perceived that she was deliberately leveling her rifle to draw a “bead” on some one of the party. Claudio instinctively wheeled from the front of the tree, where he was standing, with a sudden effort to slide behind it, when the rifle cracked, and the bark flew from the exact spot at which he would have been struck to the heart if he had remained a moment longer. With a sharp feminine whoop and a gay laugh of defiance, the spirited damsel put wings to her horse’s feet and was soon out of sight.
In the following interpolated passage, Ridge digresses from the novel’s plot to represent Native people in California (whom he refers to derogatorily as “Diggers”) as laughable, small, and servile inferiors. He also distinguishes the “Indian village” from the ancient sculptures and pottery of an earlier indigenous civilization, gesturing toward the civilizational potential of Native Americans even as he rehashes the myth of the “vanishing” Native.
On the edge of the big cauldron . . . the party saw tracks of naked feet, and the bones of rabbits, “and such small deer,” which had been apparently cooked on the heated rocks that form the rim of the cavern. There was, doubtless, a tribe of people somewhere in the vicinity who adopted this unique mode of converting the sublime and terrible into the useful. Following the tracks over the crispy ground, and circling the bed of an extensive lagoon, now dry, they reached a footpath and descended suddenly, and with a transition truly wonderful, into an exceedingly beautiful valley; and here was an Indian village. The inhabitants were entirely naked, men, women and children, of pigmy size, very dirty, and altogether a very inferior specimen of the sufficiently inferior Root Digger race of California. This tribe live on lizards, crickets, roots and worms, fish and occasional rabbits which they snare. Giving these poor creatures a few presents, the bandits passed on in the path which led through the village, and reaching the pine-clad spurs of the eastern slope, were gratified with the sight of what is now known as Owen’s Lake, a body of water filling a huge basin scooped out for it in the elevated land. It is forty miles long and from five to ten miles wide. The waters are clear and brackish, and abound in fish. On one of the streams putting into this lake the robbers fixed their camp. They were supplied with fish by the Indians, and hunters of the party brought from the hills, not unfrequently, hams of deer and antelope. Here the robbers rested and luxuriated, converting the Indians into servants, laughing at their oddities, and riding or strolling around at their pleasure. In one of his excursions out into the weird realm, upon whose confines he was quartered, Joaquin noticed on a wall of cliffs sculptured figures, of life size, of men and animals. They appeared to be ancient, and rude as they were, were certainly above any art in the possession of the miserable race then living in those parts. He also found, in an obscure crevice, a rough earthern pot, in which a horned frog had taken up his abode. For how many centuries he had lived there, a venerable hermit, it would be hard to tell. Similar earthen pots have since been found in the neighborhood, and ancient burial places are visible, with circular mounds of stones heaped upon them, about ten feet in diameter, and mouldy with time.
Cincinnatus H. Miller, “Joaquin,” Joaquin et al. Portland, OR: S. J. McCormick, Publisher, 1872. Pgs. 6–10.
The California poet Cincinnatus Heine Miller (1837–1913) wrote under the pen name “Joaquin Miller” because he was frequently identified with his popular romantic poem, “Joaquin Murietta.” Miller’s poem frames Murieta as a nostalgic figure from California’s past, contrasting his exploits with a peaceful description of ships traversing San Francisco Bay. This excerpt from the poem describes its subject on horseback, defying his pursuers in a manner reminiscent of the famous painting by Charles Nahl.
What rider rushes on the sight
Adown yon rocky long defile
Swift as an eagle in his flight—
Fierce as a winter’s storm at night—
In terror born on Sierra’s height,
Careening down some yawning gorge?
His face is flushed, his eye is wild,
And ’neath his courser’s sounding feet—
A glance could barely be more fleet—
The rocks are flashing like a forge.
Such reckless rider! I do ween
No mortal man his like has seen.
And yet, but for his long serape
All flowing loose and black as crape,
And long silk locks of blackest hair
All streaming wildly in the breeze,
You might believe him in a chair,
Or chatting at some country Fair
With friend or senorita fair,
He rides so grandly at his ease.
But now he grasps a tighter rein—
A red rein wrought in golden chain—
And in his heavy stirrup stands—
Half turns and shakes a bloody hand
And hurls imaginary blows
And shouts defiance at his foes—
Now lifts his broad hat from his brow
As if to challenge fate, and now
His hand drops to his saddle-bow
And clutches something gleaming there
As if to something more than dare—
While checks the foe as quick as though
His own hand rested on each rein.
The stray winds lift the raven curls—
Soft as a fair Castilian girl’s—
And press a brow so full and high,
Its every feature does belie
The thought, he is compelled to fly.
A brow as open as the sky,
On which you gaze and gaze again
As on a picture you have seen
That seems to hold a tale of woe—
Or wonder—you would seek to know.
A brown cut deep, as with a knife,
With many a dubious deed in life;
A brow of blended pride and pain,
And yearnings for what should have been.
He grasps his gilded gory rein,
And wheeling like a hurricane,
Defying flood, or stone, or wood,
Is dashing down the gorge again.
O never yet has prouder steed
Borne master nobler in his need.
There is a glory in his eye
That seems to dare, and to defy
Pursuit, or time, or space, or race.
His body is the type of speed,
While from his nostril to his heel
Are muscles as if made of steel.
He is not black, nor gray, nor white,
But ’neath that broad serape of night,
And locks of darkness streaming o’er,
His sleek sides seem a fiery red,
Though maybe red with gore.
What crimes have made that red hand red?
What wrongs have written that young face
With lines of thought so out of place?
Where flies he? And from where has fled?
And what his lineage and race?
What glitters in his heavy belt
And from his furred catenas gleam?
What on his bosom that doth seem
A diamond bright or dagger’s hilt?
The iron hoofs that still resound
Like thunder from the yielding ground
Alone reply; and now the plain,
Quick as you breathe and gaze again,
Is won. Pursuit is baffled and in vain.
From Johnston McCulley, The Mark of Zorro (1919)
This excerpt from the first novel featuring Zorro echoes Murieta’s acts of revenge against both government authorities and men who betray his trust. Zorro also shares Murieta’s bravado when confronting and escaping his enemies.
CHAPTER 23
More Punishment
Señor zorro rode quickly to the crest of the hill beneath which was the pueblo, and there he stopped his horse and looked down at the village.
It was almost dark, but he could see quite well enough for his purpose. Candles had been lighted in the tavern, and from the building came the sounds of raucous song and loud jest. Candles were burning at the presidio, and from some of the houses came the odor of cooking food.
Señor Zorro rode on down the hill. When he reached the edge of the plaza he put spurs to his horse and dashed up to the tavern door, before which half a dozen men were congregated, the most of them under the influence of wine.
“Landlord!” he cried.
None of the men about the door gave him particular attention at first, thinking he was but some caballero on a journey wishing refreshment. The landlord hurried out, rubbing his fat hands together, and stepped close to the horse. And then he saw that the rider was masked, and that the muzzle of a pistol was threatening him.
“Is the magistrado within?” Señor Zorro asked.
“Si, señor!”
“Stand where you are and pass the word for him. Say there is a caballero here who wishes speech with him regarding a certain matter.”
The terrified landlord shrieked for the magistrado, and the word was passed inside. Presently the judge came staggering out, crying in a loud voice to know who had summoned him from his pleasant entertainment.
He staggered up to the horse, and put one hand against it, and looked up to find two glittering eyes regarding him through a mask. He opened his mouth to shriek, but Señor Zorro warned him in time.
“Not a sound, or you die,” he said. “I have come to punish you. Today you passed judgment on a godly man who was innocent. Moreover, you knew of his innocence, and his trial was but a farce. By your order he received a certain number of lashes. You shall have the same payment.”
“You dare—”
“Silence!” the highwayman commanded. “You about the door there—come to my side!” he called.
They crowded forward, the most of them peons who thought that here was a caballero who wished something done and had gold to pay for it. In the dusk they did not see the mask and pistol until they stood beside the horse, and it was too late to retreat then.
“We are going to punish this unjust magistrado,” Señor Zorro told them. “The five of you will seize him now and conduct him to the post in the middle of the plaza, and there you will tie him. The first man to falter receives a slug of lead from my pistol, and my blade will deal with the others. And I wish speed, also.”
The frightened magistrado began to screech now.
“Laugh loudly, that his cries may not be heard,” the highwayman ordered; and the men laughed as loudly as they could, albeit there was a peculiar quality to their laughter.
They seized the magistrado by the arms and conducted him to the post and bound him there with thongs.
“You will line up,” Señor Zorro told them. “You will take this whip, and each of you will lash this man five times. I shall be watching, and if I see the whip fall lightly once I shall deal out punishment. Begin.”
He tossed the whip to the first man, and the punishment began. Señor Zorro had no fault to find with the manner in which it was given, for there was great fear in the hearts of the peons, and they whipped with strength, and willingly.
“You, also, landlord,” Señor Zorro said.
“He will put me in cárcel for it afterward,” the landlord wailed.
“Do you prefer cárcel or a coffin, señor?” the highwayman asked.
It became evident that the landlord preferred the cárcel. He picked up the whip, and he surpassed the peons in the strength of his blows.
The magistrado was hanging heavily from the thongs now. Unconsciousness had come to him with about the fifteenth blow, more through fear than through pain and punishment.
“Unfasten the man,” the highwayman ordered.
Two men sprang forward to do his bidding.
“Carry him to his house,” Señor Zorro went on.
“And tell the people of the pueblo that this is the manner in which Señor Zorro punishes those who oppress the poor and helpless, who give unjust verdicts, and who steal in the name of the law. Go your ways.”
The magistrado was carried away, groaning, consciousness returning to him now. Señor Zorro turned once more to the landlord.
“We shall return to the tavern,” he said. “You will go inside and fetch me a mug of wine, and stand beside my horse while I drink it. It would be only a waste of breath for me to say what will happen to you if you attempt treachery on the way.”
But there was fear of the magistrado in the landlord’s heart as great as his fear of Señor Zorro. He went back to the tavern, and he hurried inside, as if to get the wine. But he sounded the alarm.
“Señor Zorro is without,” he hissed at those nearest the table. “He has just caused the magistrado to be whipped cruelly. He has sent me to get him a mug of wine.”
Then he went on to the wine cask and began drawing the drink as slowly as possible.
There was sudden activity inside the tavern.
Some half dozen caballeros were there, men who followed in the footsteps of the governor. Now they drew their blades and began creeping toward the door, and one of them who possessed a pistol and had it in his sash, drew it out, saw that it was prepared for work, and followed in their wake.
Señor Zorro, sitting his horse some twenty feet from the door of the tavern, suddenly beheld a throng rush out at him, saw the light flash from half a dozen blades, heard the report of a pistol, and heard a ball whistle past his head.
The landlord was standing in the doorway, praying that the highwayman would be captured, for then he would be given some credit, and perhaps the magistrado would not punish him for having used the lash.
Señor Zorro caused his horse to rear high in the air, and then raked the beast with the spurs. The animal sprang forward, into the midst of the caballeros, scattering them.
That was what Señor Zorro wanted. His blade already was out of its scabbard, and it passed through a man’s swordarm, swung over and drew blood on another.
He fenced like a maniac, maneuvering his horse to keep his antagonists separated, so that only one could get at him at a time. Now the air was filled with shrieks and cries, and men came tumbling from the houses to ascertain the cause of the commotion. Señor Zorro knew that some of them would have pistols, and while he feared no blade, he realized that a man could stand some distance away and cut him down with a pistol-ball.
So he caused his horse to plunge forward again, and before the fat landlord realized it, Señor Zorro was beside him, and had reached down and grasped him by the arm. The horse darted away, the fat landlord dragging, shrieking for rescue and begging for mercy in the same breath. Señor Zorro rode with him to the whipping-post.
“Hand me that whip!” he commanded.
The shrieking landlord obeyed, and called upon the saints to protect him. And then Señor Zorro turned him loose, and curled the whip around his fat middle, and as the landlord tried to run he cut at him again and again. He left him once to charge down upon those who had blades and so scatter them, and then he was back with the landlord again, applying the whip.
“You tried treachery!” he cried. “Dog of a thief! You would send men about my ears, eh? I’ll strip your tough hide—”
“Mercy!” the landlord shrieked, and fell to the ground.
Señor Zorro cut at him again, bringing forth a yell more than blood. He wheeled his horse and darted at the nearest of his foes. Another pistol-ball whistled past his head, another man sprang at him with blade ready. Señor Zorro ran the man neatly through the shoulder and put spurs to his horse again. He galloped as far as the whipping-post, and there he stopped his horse and faced them for an instant.
“There are not enough of you to make a fight interesting, señores,” he cried.
He swept off his sombrero and bowed to them in nice mockery, and then he wheeled his horse again and dashed away.