The Little Lady of Lagunitas by Richard Henry Savage

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Under the printed words is the scrawl:

"I myself will give ten thousand.

"JOAQUIN."

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

The San Joaquin valley becomes a theatre of continued conflict.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Captain, wake up!"

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

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

Valois rouses several tired friends.

"My horse!" he yells.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shoot the old Greaser."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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