* * *
Hawk, now a rich man with a beautiful stallion and a poke full of gold, prepared to ride back to his village. Clint walked with him when he went to saddle his stallion.
“It’s not my way to stick my nose in others’ business,” Clint said, watching his Chumash friend bridle the dappled gray he had selected.
“If something burdens you, lay it aside,” Hawk reached for the carved saddle and set to the task.
“You can’t go backward, Hawk. The way your people used to live was fine, but if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that things change.”
Hawk mounted and bent to stroke the stallion’s neck. He paused and looked into Clint’s eyes. “But not always for the better.”
“That’s true, but nothing ever stands still, and nothing ever goes backward. There’s a war between Mexico and the United States, and if the United States wins, California will be a territory... and things will change even faster. The courts of the United States will not accept some of your old ways, and much trouble will come to the Chumash.”
Hawk extended his hand to Clint, and they shook. “I will think on it, my friend.”
“Think hard on it. You can lead your people out of the darkness.”
“And into what? More darkness? Disease? We are of the past.”
“But you don’t have to be. Look forward.”
With a rueful smile, Hawk brought his fist across his chest, and Clint returned the sign of friendship. Hawk galloped away, Clint hoped the next time he saw him, the tribe would be embracing the best of the new world even as they cling to the best of the old.
After Hawk left, Clint, Ramón, Inocente, and Don Estoban rode out to Santa Barbara, following the caleche with the Padilla women, who would stay at the Camacho hacienda until Estoban was able to rebuild their own. They would arrive in time for the last two days of the celebration of the feast of Corpus Christi. Though they had lost a great deal, there was still much to be thankful for.
While Ramón went to pay his respects to his father’s grave next to the mission Clint found Padre Javier, who was busily overseeing the preparation of a massive meal for the poor.
“This is a good time for you to be here, my son,” Padre Javier said, smiling, “for the Charleston has come and gone.”
“I saw there was no ship in the harbor. Do they know of the war?”
“No mention was made of it. The Charleston should he visiting other ports and should not return to Santa Barbara again for months. You should be safe here for a while.”
Clint felt the heat at the back of his neck. Hearing of what Sharpentier would do to him was getting old. But he clamped his jaw and made no comment. The padre was only trying to help. He changed the subject.
Don Estoban seemed to be strangely unconcerned about the war… surprise to me.”
“For years,” the priest said, “Mexico City has been far from Alta California, not only in distance, but in many other ways. Even though they deny it, they have stepped away from Mother Church and have let the missions go to ruin. It is too soon to tell, but this may prove to be a blessing to us all. God works in mysterious ways.”
Clint let that soak in a moment then changed the subject. “I’m sorry, Father, but I lost the horse Don Nicholas loaned me. He fell to the arrows of the Yokuts horse thieves.”
“Too bad, but better him than you or the others,” The padre shook his head. “The meal is almost prepared. Then I must go to the fandango, as should you. We will stop by Don Nicholas Den’s on the way and you can explain the matter to him.”
“And return the guns,’ Clint said without enthusiasm. He had grown very attached to the Colts.
Ramón joined them, and the three walked through the decorated streets of the pueblo to the don’s hacienda. Don Nicholas greeted them warmly, led them to a sideboard, and poured each of them a generous dollop of Irish whiskey, “To the victors.”
They raised their glasses. Then Clint gave him the sorry news. “I lost the red roan, Don Nicholas. He took several Yokuts arrows meant for me. If you will tell me what he was worth…”
“He died a noble death, saving a brave son of Ireland. Consider him my gift to the cause.”
“Thank you.” Relieved that the don seemed proud of the horse’s part in the Yokuts’ punishment, Clint leaned against the back of a tall straight leather-backed chair. I did manage to return with your fine weapons. I’ll tell you—and I shouldn’t, for I’d like to buy them—they are without peer.” With Sharpentier still a threat, he would need more than the knife he carried.
“Buy them?”
“If you would consider parting with them.”
“Leave them here until the celebrations are over, and I will think on it.” He laughed. “Come to think of it, I would hate to have a Celt march through the world unarmed.” Then his expression changed, and he rested against the edge of a dark mahogany desk. “I understand the death of my old friend, Alfonso Diego was well avenged.”
“Not to my liking,” Ramón said, “but it will do until I have another opportunity.”
They talked awhile longer then Don Nicholas rose and walked them to the door. Clint, the padre, and Ramón left for the fandango, which was being held in the square in front of the presidio.
Ahead of them they could see the crowd gathering. More than two hundred, dressed in embroidered velvet, chiffon, satin, and silk, filled the road and the grassy area of the square, drinking, laughing, and dancing to the lively rhythm of violins, guitars, triangles, and flutes. Many vaqueros sat astride their horses, commenting on the beautiful women and wishing they too had one on their arm. Several vaqueros waved to Ramón, and men Clint had never met called out to him, “El Lazo.” He waved and laughed, enjoying the camaraderie.
Then, only a block from the square, he glanced up. From between two adobe buildings a group of men moved in front of him blocking his way. Clint sucked in a breath. A scowling Captain Quade Sharpentier, in full-dress uniform, backed by ten sailors armed with muskets and cutlasses, stared back at him.
Clint stopped in his tracks.
“There are eight more behind us,” Ramón said quietly.
With a glance back Clint recognized the smirking face, the massive shoulders the rotting teeth, and the bald head of Skinner, his old first mate. Skinner hawked and spat into the street then cocked his head to the side and stuck out his tongue grotesquely as he held one arm up high, miming the hangman’s noose.
“You have no authority here.” Padre Javier stepped in front of Clint to face the captain. Your warrant is no longer valid. Mexico and the United States are at war.
“I come with the greatest authority”—Sharpentier smiled sardonically—“musket and cutlass. If you doubt that authority, I may just run up the Stars and Stripes over that pile of mud you call a public building.”
He stepped forward and glowered at the priest. “Get the hell out of the way.”
“I’ve no dog in this fight,” Ramón mumbled. Spinning on his heel, he gave them his back and strode across the road. Clint’s shoulders sagged as he watched his trusted friend slip away.
Ramón was the last man, he thought, to run from a fight. Clint looked desperately for a way out but saw none. Resting his hand on the hilt of his knife, he cursed himself for leaving the Colt behind with Don Nicholas. I’ll not ride acorn’s horse without a fight, he swore.
The sailors behind closed to within paces, as did those in front. Turk stepped in to face Sharpentier.
“Wait, Captain. Wait just a moment.”
“Stand aside.”
“Not till ye hear me out.”
“Speak quickly. We’ve a neck to stretch, and since we are technically at war with these greasers, I see no reason not to use that big oak in the square and add to the decorations of this falderal party. Maybe they’ll give us a reason to take this town as well.”
Clint shifted slowly, easing his back to the adobe wall. Then he unsheathed his knife—and a dozen sailors leveled their muskets at him.
/>
“Ryan,” Sharpentier snarled, “I’d as soon hang you with the added weight of a few musketballs. My line is stout enough.”
“But he was below, Cap’n,” Turk protested.
“What the hell are you talkin’ about, man?”
“Ryan. When we grounded the Savannah, Ryan was below. He was never called to watch.”
The men behind the captain stirred, muttering quietly among themselves. Wishon stepped out of the crowd. “And he be no shirker, Captain. I can speak to that.”
As they argued back and forth, Clint noticed more and more mounted vaqueros passing in the road, and Ramón, Don Estoban, and Inocente were among them, their looks deadly serious.
Sharpentier clutched Wishon’s collar in his fist. “Stand aside, you Ethiopian sogger, unless you want to join him”
“Let’s hang the bastard,” Skinner shouted, and the men charged forward.
A sharp blow knocked Padre Javier aside and musket butts, fists, and feet drove Clint to the ground. Through a haze of pain he heard a few scattered musket shots. Then his attackers began to careen away. Clint’s vision cleared, and he realized he was no longer being held.
Screaming obscenities, sailors were being dragged in every direction, the road a jumble of horses, lines, and men.
Matt, his huge arms circling his foe, was locked chest-to-chest with Skinner while the first mate rained great thumping blows on Matt’s head. Blood flowed from Matt’s nose and ears, and through the bandages from the wound in his back, but still he squeezed. Skinner’s eyes bulged. He flailed his arms, gasped and groaned, then uttered a gurgling choke, and his eyes swelled even more. They rolled up in their sockets, his huge head fell to his shoulder, and his arms went limp. Matt dropped him to the sidewalk, but Matt was not smiling.
Straining, the veins popping out on his face and neck, Matt hefted Skinner chest-high by his throat and crotch and flung the first mate against the adobe wall. The wall crashed away, and the first mate tumbled through in a cloud of dust.
Matt wiped at his bloody face and grinned at Clint. “Should make walls from good teak, like in Sandwich Islands.”
The alcalde rode up, leading a detachment of cholo soldados carrying lances and muskets. He shouted at the vaqueros, who reined their horses and dragged their charges back to where Clint struggled to his feet.
Ramón, with Quade Sharpentier at the end of his reata, pulled to a stop in front of the alcalde and Clint. He doffed his hat. “I have roped the goat, Lazo. Do you wish to have him now?”
“I have no need of the bastard,” Clint said, brushing himself off.
Sharpentier lurched to his feet, shed the mop, and staggered over to Don Francisco Acaya. The captain’s fancy uniform was covered with dust and dung from the streets and his beard was dirt-brown, but he managed to speak. “I have a warrant,” he sputtered.
Wishon and Turk, who had managed to flee inside the hacienda to avoid the loops, stepped out of the hole where Skinner had disappeared. “We’re with ye, Clint,” Turk said. “I know ye’re innocent.”
Matt stepped forward and addressed the alcalde. You should have a warrant for Captain Sharpentier, sir. I saw him knock your guard out and break into your armory.”
“That’s a bloody lie!” Sharpentier shouted.
Matt took a step toward Sharpentier, and the captain’s eyes widened.
Don Francisco, his opulently uniformed chest puffing out, turned to his captain of the guard. “Take the Anglo Capitán to the juzgado. We will straighten this out after the fandango.” He turned back to Clint and Matt. “You two will report to me when the fandango is over. We have unfinished business: the matter of my stock and this Kanaka’s escape. If it were not for your service in punishing the Yokuts—”
Dragging a dirt-spitting marinero, Don Estoban reined up and dismounted nearby. “I can vouch for those men, Alcalde.”
Don Francisco pondered for a moment. “Then I will leave this matter to you. I am satisfied with their service to the pueblo and hereby grant them a pardon—this time. I will not miss the bullfight.”
The cholos marched Sharpentier away at lancepoint, and Skinner stumbled to the opening in the wall, a broken man. Grinning, Matt took a step toward him, but the first mate held up his hands. “All I want is to get back to me ship. With Sharpentier in jail, she is my responsibility now,”
The alcalde glared at the first mate. “Then take her away from the shores of California. Until this war is settled, I do not want to see her in the harbor.”
“We’ll sail with the tide,” Skinner said, pleased by the turn of events.
Clint moved between Matt and Skinner, nose-to-nose with the big first mate. “Take your mates with you.” Skinner backed away and began to gather his men. Several carried those who could not walk, and they limped away to the safety of the ship.
Clint clasped Matt on the shoulder. “Come on brother. Ramón and I will buy you a mug of aguardiente.”
Matt backhanded the blood from his nose.
“But only one,” Clint amended.
Inocente dismounted, favoring his shoulder, and limped along with them. “I will buy the second,” he said.
Coiling his reata, Ramón trotted his horse up beside them. “Lazo! Inocente and I were going to capture the oso grande next weekend. Since he is unable to hunt for a while, you will ride against the grizzly in his stead.”
Clint glanced at Inocente.
“It is true, amigo,” Inocente said. “You may borrow my reata as I have not yet mended yours.”
“We need a grizzly,” Ramón said. “The one captured for the bull-and-bear fight has escaped. It has been rescheduled for next week.”
“Gracias,” Clint said with a smile. “I need a little excitement.”
Epilogue
August 1, 1846
A little more than three months after the Corpus Christi festivities ended, Sharpentier was serving a six-month sentence in the pueblo juzgado. Clint and Matt lounged in the square in front of the presidio watching the afternoon paseo of señoritas and their dueñas.
They noticed a ship entering the harbor, a ship Clint had never seen before. He and Matt wandered down to the waterfront and watched while she dropped anchor. A Mexican stood awaiting the longboat, a spyglass in hand. Clint borrowed it.
“By the saints!” he said. “She’s a U.S. frigate.”
The longboat breached the surf, and ten musket-toting marines in full battle attire and fieldpacks unloaded and fell into snappy formation behind a man resplendent in a commodore’s brass-buttoned uniform. Six navy bluejackets remained with the longboat. The marines started forward in precise unison then the commodore paused when he noticed the sandy-haired blue-eyed vaquero.
“You there!” He motioned Clint over. “I’m Commodore Robert Field Stockton of the United States Navy, and I’m here to take possession of the entire Santa Barbara Presidial District. Where will I find the alcalde of Santa Barbara?”
Deciding to play it safe, Clint, gave him directions in heavily Irish-accented English.
“Thank you,” the commodore said. “And your name?”
Clint hesitated a moment. “El Lazo of Santa Barbara, but by birth and blood, Kilkenny County, Ireland, and I’m at your service, Commodore.”
The commodore nodded another thank-you, and he and his contingent of marines quick-stepped away. The men glanced from side to side as they moved up Calle Principal. When they reached the square unopposed, they dropped the serpent-and-nopal hammer of Mexico and ran up the Stars and Stripes.
El Lazo watched with mixed emotions. He was a wanted man by the government of the Unites States. He would have to be gone from Santa Barbara before Captain Quade Sharpentier was released from the juzgado, but even so, he felt his chest swell with pride at the sight of the red, white, and blue banner.
And he knew if there was to be a fight, no matter how he was torn by allegiance to new friends, he would have to stand on the side of Old Glory.
Times were changing in A
lta California. And times were changing for John Clinton Ryan, a good man with line or lazo.
Historical Notes and Acknowledgements
The first Europeans found the California shore and its offshore islands well populated with natives. Several thousand Chumash, called Canalinos by the Spanish, occupied the Santa Barbara Channel area, including the offshore islands. As many as twenty-five thousand Yokuts occupied California’s great central valley. Though in some ways not so advanced as the Plains Indians, these tribes had an intricate society with well-established religious and social mores.
The Chumash and Yokuts used pestibaba, a strong native tobacco, and toloche (jimson weed), a highly toxic plant, for their religious ceremonies. (For those adventurous and foolhardy few who might be tempted, the use of jimson weed will blind you, if you are lucky enough to survive its consumption.) The native medicine men were skilled and were not condemned for burying their mistakes. They could blame it on Sup, their god. If their subject died, he had obviously displeased Sup.
The early Chumash believed that the killing of their firstborn strengthened the subsequent offspring, and among other practices abhorrent to Anglos, believed in the free exchange of women, including sisters, among the adult men. The author has taken some liberty (literary license if you will) in suggesting that a group if Chumash might have returned to those beliefs as late as 1846.
The Chumash native weapons were well developed, though their bows were small and their arrows short. The Yokuts used both short and long bows and atlatls, throwing sticks. Both tribes used axes and lances. They could not kill the formidable grizzly, but the weapons were sufficient to take any other game native to California and took their share of men.
Most game was caught by snare or trap, and the fishtrap in the marshy valley was common. Poisons were also used to stun fish and bring them to the surface for easy gathering.
Native basketwork, particularly that of the Yokuts, was as intricate as that of the Plains tribes and often far superior.
The great interior valley of California, now known as the San Joaquin and Sacramento valleys, was primarily populated by Yokuts. The word Yokuts is not plural, but like Crow or Apache, is the tribal name. The Yokuts society was much like that of the Chumash, with the notable exception that only the chief could have multiple wives.
The tribes of central California seldom fought. The Yokuts were divided into several tribes of up to four villages each. Tribal boundaries were well defined by watersheds or waterways, and disputes were settled by tribal elders.
Trading was a way of life for the California Indians, and they ranged far and wide, trading extensively with the distant Mojave and Paiute Indians of the deserts. Abalone-shell ornaments found their way into the pueblos of faraway New Mexico and Colorado.
There is disagreement among archaeologists regarding the whaling done by the Chumash. Some claim the whalebones found in middens came only from beached whales, though there is good documentation regarding their wonderfully constructed tomolos, thirty-foot canoes of split, lapped, and tar-caulked planks. Unfortunately, none survive to grace museum halls, where we might gaze in wonder at the workmanship of these patient early craftsmen.
The introduction of the horse changed the California natives much as it changed the Plains tribes. In addition to transportation, California natives, whose primary protein staple had been the acorn, developed a dependence on the horse as a food source. From 1830 to 1850, raids on the horse herds of the missions and ranchos of the coast by the Miwok and Yokuts from the interior were commonplace. Horses were stolen and driven to the interior not as riding stock but as meat for the butcher’s knife.
The Mexicans considered constructing forts in the passes to keep the Indians at bay—particularly at Pacheco Pass—but California was segmented in its politics and never loyal to the governors appointed by Mexico City. Therefore, few public projects were completed.
Point Conception, near Santa Barbara, and its neighbor to the north, Point Arguello, have claimed many ships over California’s history Point Arguello is known as a ship graveyard.
Calle Principal, in Santa Barbara, is now known as State Street.
The alcalde of Santa Barbara in 1846 was actually Nicholas (who later changed the spelling to Nicolas) Den, an Irishman who took Mexican citizenship, married a señorita, and acquired by grant one of California’s oldest, most beautiful, and most prestigious ranchos—Rancho Dos Pueblos, just north of Santa Barbara. Due to the economic reversals of his family, Den had been forced out of an Irish medical school in his last year, but the knowledge he gained there brought him the title doctor, though he discouraged its use.
Rancho Dos Pueblos was one of the first places named in California, having been mentioned in Cabrillo’s log on October 16, 1542, when his unwieldy caravels, the San Salvador and the La Victoria, both flying the flag of Spain, anchored off shore and spotted two almost identical Indian villages on either side of a creek. Later in the twentieth century, Dos Pueblos, demonstrating the area’s ideal climate, gained fame as an orchid farm.
Mexican independence in 1820 and the emancipation of the Indians in 1835 resulted in the downfall of the mission system. Mexico felt the Franciscans were loyal to Mother Spain and coveted the land and great herds of the missions. The conversion of California neophytes peaked shortly after the turn of the nineteenth century, and most of the coastal Indians were converted to Christianity. The interior, always ignored by the Spanish and the Mexicans, held what was left of the California natives, and they, like the coastal natives, would be tamed by the white man’s diseases far more than by his weapons.
Nicholas Den and his partner, Daniel Hill, an American who also sought Mexican citizenship so he could partake of the land-grant system, were instrumental in protecting Mission Santa Barbara from the nepotistic greed of Governor Pío Pico.
They conspired with the priest to lease the mission, thereby saving it from the governor’s gavel. Pico sold Mission San Juan Capistrano and its thousands of acres to his brother-in-law for seven hundred and fifty dollars. Pico, with his bags of gold, fled to Mexico during the Americanization of California.
Today, Mission Santa Barbara ranks as the most visited of western historical shrines. The altar candles of Mission Santa Barbara have been burning continuously since Padre Lasuen first lit them in 1786.
In 1848 California boasted a population of some 14,000 Mexicans and an estimated 30,000 Indians. But the cry of gold was heard around the world. By 1852, 350,000 Americans, Chinese, Peruvians, Australians, and many others had flooded her shores, and until Lincoln restored the ownership of the missions to the Franciscans in 1865, the mission system was virtually destroyed. The women of the tribes of California were assimilated into the white race, leaving the pure Indian strain almost unheard of in the Golden State.
Today, the former glory of the missions is only a memory, but thanks to the intelligence, education, and tenacity of the learned padres, a memory that has been well recorded.
Until the gold rush, the interior of California was virtually unexplored. A few Spanish and Mexican expeditions made their way around the interior valleys, mostly to punish Indian raiders. But Mexico considered the territory of California as the land extending from the coast to the Rocky Mountains, even though the coastal areas of California and the Rio Grande watershed—Taos, Sante Fe, and Tucson—were the only areas settled. Sante Fe, like California, did not depend upon Mexico or faraway Mexico City. Sante Fe (the oldest European city north of Mexico on the North American continent other than St. Augustine in Florida) traded with Missouri and Arkansas via the Sante Fe Trail, and California traded with the ships of many nations plying the Pacific.
Americans considered a United States stretching from ocean to ocean to be their “manifest destiny.” When Texas became a republic, she, too looked at New Mexico and California with covetous eyes, seeking those areas mostly as a method of convincing the States that Texas must be annexed. The Texas president Lamar went so far as to launch
an all out expedition to take Sante Fe but failed.
His navy was armed with the Colt revolving breech rifles and his Rangers with Colt revolvers, the forerunners of modern arms. Fifteen Texas Rangers actually fended off eighty musket-and breechloader-armed Commanches, killing or maiming forty of them and proving for all time the value of the revolver.
If it cannot he said that the vaquero of California had no peer as a horseman, at least not without starting a range war between California and the other western states, it can certainly be said that he was equal to any in the world. The horse was his life. He treated his horse with respect and ruled him with utter authority, and sometimes disdain, for horses were numerous. At one time, over five thousand head were driven off the cliffs of the Irvine Ranch simply because they were competing with the cattle for forage. A halter-broken horse would bring five dollars in California when a wild one would bring fifty in Fort Smith, Arkansas.
In addition to many other sources, the author is particularly indebted to the following writings: Arnold “Chief” Rojas, 1897-1988, whose many books on California vaquero are not only informative but a joy to read. As a working vaquero. Rojas spun a tale as if you sat across a campfire from him.
Frank F. Latta, 1892-1983, the ultimate chronicler of California Indians. Latta, a born ethnographer, personally interviewed hundreds of surviving Indians from 1923 until his death. His knowledge and writing regarding the daily life of the Yokuts were invaluable.
Other works of particular interest:
The Californians, the magazine of the California Historical Society.
The exploration reports of Fages and Crespi.
The exploration reports of Anza and Font.
From Cowhides to Golden Fleece, by Underhill.
A Scotch Paisano, by Dakin.
The Land of Poco Tiempo, by Lummis.
About the Author
L. J. Martin is the author of over thirty book-length works, including westerns, historical novels, mysteries, thrillers, and non-fiction. He has also written a number of screenplays, one of which was optioned by a major NBC approved producer.
His five non-fiction books include: Killing Cancer, he's a two-time cancer survivor, Write Compelling Fiction, an instructional work for aspiring authors, Myrtle Mae & the Crew, a book of cartoons, From the Pea Patch, a conservative political series of essays, and Cooking Wild & Wonderful, a cookbook with story content.
He and his wife Kat live in Montana in the spring, summer, and fall and on the California coast in the winter. His wife Kat Martin is a New York Times bestselling, internationally published, romantic suspense and historical romance author, published in over a dozen foreign languages and in two dozen countries.
When not writing, L. J. is cooking and developing recipes for his webpage wolfpackranch.com, hunting, fishing, hauling his cameras around the high country, or promoting their careers.
He has two dozen novels and non-fiction works listed on Amazon and Kindle. Join him on Facebook at L. J. Martin and his cooking page The Kitchen Wolfpack Ranch.
You can contact L. J. through his website: https://ljmartin.com.
Word-of-mouth is crucial for any author to succeed. If you enjoyed El Lazo, please consider leaving a review at Amazon, even it’s only a line or two; it could make all the difference and would be very much appreciated. I thank you in advance.
Other Works by L. J. Martin
in print and eBook
Available in print and eBook
Shadow of the Mast
Tenkiller
Mojave Showdown
El Lazo
Against the 7th Flag
The Devil’s Bounty
The Benicia Belle
Shadow of the Grizzly
Rush to Destiny
Windfall
Condor Canyon
Blood Mountain
Stranahan
McKeag’s Mountain
McCreed’s Law
O’Rourke’s Revenge
Wolf Mountain
Nemesis
Venomous (Fourplay)
Sounding Drum (Last Stand)
From The Pea Patch
Write Compelling Fiction
Killing Cancer
Internet Rich (with Mike Bray)
Against the Grain
Tin Angel (with Kat Martin)
Crimson Hit (with Bob Burton)
Bullet Blues (with Bob Burton)
Quiet Ops (with Bob Burton)
Myrtle Mae (cartoons)
Cooking Wild & Wonderful
Mr. Pettigrew
Unchained
Short Story Collection & More
Slopes of the Sierra (short stories)
Who's The Boss?
The Write Stuff
Buckshot (formerly Tenkiller)
Blood Mountain
California Cocina
Mojave Showdown
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends