The Squatter and the Don A Novel Descriptive of Contemporary Occurrences in California — A Reader’s Guide

and improve my health, and all those objects have been accomplished, I might as well go home. Then, my other aunt, with whom I reside, is not feeling well. She went to spend the summer in Virginia, but writes that her health has not improved much, and she will soon come back to Washington. Then some of my pupils will want to recommence their lessons soon, and I want to have some little time to myself before I begin to work. You know, Mr. Darrell, I teach to support myself.”

“Yes, only because you have a notion to do it.”

“A notion! Do you think I am rich?”

“No, but there is no need of your working.”

“It is a need to me to feel independent. I don’t want to be supported by my aunts, while I know how to earn my own living.”

“Miss Mary, please, I beg of you, let me have the happiness of taking care of you. Be my wife, I am not a rich man, but I have enough to provide for you.”

“Mr. Darrell, you surprise me. I thank you for the compliment you pay me with your honorable offer, but I have no wish to get married.”

“Do you reject me, Miss Mary? Tell me one thing; tell me truly, do you care for any one else?”

“No, I care for nobody. I don’t want to marry.”

“But you will marry some time. If you knew how very miserable you make me, I think you would not have the heart to refuse me.”

“You will get over it. I am going soon. Forget me.”

Darrell made no answer. He staggered out of the room and did not return until the following week, when Mary had left for Washington, accompanied by Letitia, her colored servant (called Tisha), who was devotedly attached to her.

Darrell had become rather taciturn and less sociable than ever, Mrs. Newton noticed, and since Mary left he seemed to lose flesh and all his spirits, and passed the winter as if life were a burden to him. But when spring came, he brightened up a little, though he felt far from happy. About that time Mrs. Newton had a letter from Mary, saying that she was going to spend vacation in Maryland with her other aunt, and Tisha for her escort.

“She don’t come here, because she fears I shall pester her life with my visits. As she knows I can’t keep away from her, she keeps away from you. She hates me. I suppose you, too, will take to hating me, by and by,” said Darrell, when he heard that Mary was not coming that summer.

“No danger of that, William,” Mrs. Newton replied.

“Yes, there is. You ought to hate me for driving her away. I hate myself worse than I hate the devil.”

“William, you mustn’t feel so. It isn’t right.”

“I know it. But when did I ever do anything right, I’d like to know? I wish I could hate her as I hate myself, or as she hates me.”

“William, she does not hate you.”

“How do you know she don’t?”

“Because she would have told me. She is very truthful.”

“I know it. She gave me my walking papers in a jiffy. I wish I could hate her.”

“William, do you promise not to get angry, if I tell you why Mary declined your offer?”

“Say on. You couldn’t well make a burning furnace any hotter. I am too mad already.”

“Well, I’ll tell you. She likes you, but is afraid of you.”

“Afraid? afraid?” said he, aghast—“why! that is awful! I, an object of fear, when I worship the ground she treads on! But, how? What have I done? When did I frighten her?”

“At no particular time; but often you gave her the impression that you have a high temper, and she told me, ‘If I loved Mr. Darrell better than my life, I wouldn’t marry him, for I could never be happy with a man of a violent temper.’ Then she spoke, too, of her being a Roman Catholic and you a Protestant.”

“But you are a Catholic and uncle is Protestant.”

“Certainly, I think the barrier is not insuperable.”

“So, my temper frightened her! It is awful!” He mused in silence for a few minutes and then left the room.

About an hour after, he returned dressed for traveling, carrying a satchel in one hand and a tin box under his arm. He put the box on the table, saying:

“Aunt Newton, I am going away for a few days. Please take care of this box until I return or you hear from me. Good-by!” and he hurried away, for he had only barely time to catch the train going to New York.

Darrell was in New York for a few hours. He bought a finer suit of clothes, a very elegant light overcoat, hat and boots, and gloves to match, and thus equipped so elegantly that he hardly recognized himself, as he surveyed his figure in a large mirror of the furnishing store, where he was so metamorphosed, he took the night train for Washington.

It was early on a Sunday morning that Darrell arrived at Washington. He went to a hotel, entered his name, took a room, a bath and a breakfast, and then called a hack to go in search of Mary. He knew that was not an hour for calling, but he had _business_ with Mary. His was no friendly visit; it was a matter of life and death with him.

He rang the bell, and presently he heard Tisha’s flapping steps coming. “Lud a massa!” she exclaimed, stepping back. But recovering herself, said with true heartiness—

“Come in the parlor, please. It is true glad Miss Mary will be to see ye.”

“Do you think so, Tisha?” he asked.

“I know it; no thinking about it, neither. She is going to mass; but she’ll see you for a little while, anyway.”

Opening the parlor door for Darrell to walk in, Tisha ran up stairs to Mary’s room.

“Oh Miss Mary!” said she, “guess who is down stairs.”

“I couldn’t, Tish, being so early and on Sunday, but I heard a man’s voice. Is it a gentleman?”

“You bet; ah! please excuse me, I mean sure as I live it is, and no other than Mr. Darrell, from New England.”

“Ah!” said Miss Mary, affecting indifference, but her hands trembled as she tied her bonnet strings.

Darrell knew he must appear self-contained and not in the least impetuous, but when he saw those beautiful dark eyes of Mary’s he forgot all his pretended calmness.

“Is my aunt well?” Mary began as she came in.

“Yes, yes, everybody is well; don’t be alarmed at my coming, I know it must seem strange to you. Two days ago I had no idea of coming to Washington, but Miss Moreneau, your aunt told me you were not coming North this summer, and this news nearly drove me crazy.”

“Wait, don’t drive me off yet. Your aunt told me that you refused me because you believe I have a violent temper. Now, I am not going to deny that, but this I am going to say—That I have never violated my word, and never shall, and I make a most solemn oath to you, that if you will marry me you shall never have occasion to be made unhappy or displeased by my quick anger, because you will only have to remind me of this pledge, and I shall curb my temper, if it kills me.”

“Mr. Darrell, I believe you are perfectly sincere in what you say, but a strong trait of character is not controlled easily. It is more apt to be uncontrollable.”

“For God’s sake don’t refuse me, I feel I must kill myself if you spurn me. I don’t want life without you.”

“Don’t say that,” Mary said, trying to keep calm, but she felt as if being carried away in spite of herself, by the torrent of his impetuosity. She was afraid of him, but she liked him and she liked to be loved in that passionate rebellious way of his; she smiled, adding, “we must postpone this conversation for I must go to church, and it is quite a long walk there.”

“The carriage that brought me is at the door, take it, and don’t walk, it is quite warm out.”

“Will you go with me to church? You see, that is another obstacle; the difference of religions.”

“Indeed, that is no obstacle; your religion tells you to pity me.”

“We will talk to Father White about that.”

“Then Mary, my beloved, will you give me hope?”

“And will you really try to control your anger when you feel it is getting the mastery over you?”

“I will, so help me God,” said he, lifting his hand.

“Take care, that is an oath.”

“I know it, and mean it,” said he, much moved.

They went to church together. After church, Mary had a few moments conversation with her pastor. She explained everything to him. “Do you love him, my child,” asked the good father, knowing the human heart only too well. Mary blushed and said—

“Yes, father, I believe I do.”

“Very well, send him to see me to-morrow morning.”

Darrell had a long talk with Father White, and promised solemnly not to coerce or influence his wife to change her religion, and that should their union be blessed with children, they should be baptized and brought up Catholics.

And his union was blessed. Mary made his New England home a paradise, and eight children, sharing largely their mother’s fine qualities, filled to overflowing his cup of happiness.

CHAPTER II.—_The Don’s View of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo._

If there had been such a thing as communicating by telephone in the days of ’72, and there had been those magic wires spanning the distance between William Darrell’s house in Alameda County and that of Don Mariano Alamar in San Diego County, with power to transmit the human voice for five hundred miles, a listener at either end would have heard various discussions upon the same subject, differentiated only by circumstances. No magic wires crossed San Francisco bay to bring the sound of voices to San Diego, but the law of necessity made the Squatter and the Don, distant as they were—distant in every way, without reckoning the miles between them—talk quite warmly of the same matter. The point of view was of course different, for how could it be otherwise? Darrell thought himself justified, and _authorized_, to “take up lands,” as he had done before. He had had more than half of California’s population on his side, and though the “_Squatter’s Sovereignty_” was now rather on the wane, and the “_squatter vote_” was no longer the power, still, the squatters would not abdicate, having yet much to say about election times.

But Darrell was no longer the active squatter that he had been. He controlled many votes yet, but in his heart he felt the weight which his wife’s sad eyes invariably put there when the talk was of litigating against a Mexican land title.

This time, however, Darrell honestly meant to take no land but what belonged to the United States. His promise to his wife was sincere, yet his coming to Southern California had already brought trouble to the Alamar rancho.

Don Mariano Alamar was silently walking up and down the front piazza of his house at the rancho; his hands listlessly clasped behind and his head slightly bent forward in deep thought. He had pushed away to one side the many arm-chairs and wicker rockers with which the piazza was furnished. He wanted a long space to walk. That his meditations were far from agreeable, could easily be seen by the compressed lips, slight frown, and sad gaze of his mild and beautiful blue eyes. Sounds of laughter, music and dancing came from the parlor; the young people were entertaining friends from town with their usual gay hospitality, and enjoying themselves heartily. Don Mariano, though already in his fiftieth year, was as fond of dancing as his sons and daughters, and not to see him come in and join the quadrille was so singular that his wife thought she must come out and inquire what could detain him. He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he did not hear her voice calling him—

“What keeps you away? Lizzie has been looking for you; she wants you for a partner in the lancers,” said Doña Josefa, putting her arm under that of her husband, bending her head forward and turning it up to look into his eyes.

“What is the matter?” she asked, stopping short, thus making her husband come to a sudden halt. “I am sure something has happened. Tell me.”

“Nothing, dear wife. Nothing has happened. That is to say, nothing new.”

“More squatters?” she asked. Señor Alamar bent his head slightly, in affirmative reply.

“More coming, you mean?”

“Yes, wife; more. Those two friends of squatters Mathews and Hager, who were here last year to locate claims and went away, did not abandon their claims, but only went away to bring proselytes and their families, and a large invoice of them will arrive on to-morrow’s steamer. The worst of it all is, that among the new comers is that terrible and most dangerous squatter William Darrell, who some years ago gave so much trouble to the Spanish people in Napa and Sonoma Counties, by locating claims there. John Gasbang wrote to Hogsden that besides Darrell, there will be six or seven other men bringing their families, so that there will be more rifles for my cattle.”

“But, didn’t we hear that Darrell was no longer a squatter, that he is rich and living quietly in Alameda?”

“Yes, we heard that, and it is true. He is quite well off, but Gasbang and Miller and Mathews went and told him that my rancho had been rejected, and that it is near enough to town to become valuable, as soon as we have a railroad. Darrell believed it, and is coming to locate here.”

“Strange that Darrell should believe such men; I suppose he does not know how low they are.”

“He ought to know them, for they were his teamsters when he crossed the plains in ’48. That is, Miller, Mathews, Hughes and Hager, were his teamsters, and Gasbang was their cook—the cook for the hired men. Mrs. Darrell had a colored woman who cooked for the Darrell family; she despised Gasbang’s cooking as we despise his character, I suppose.”

Doña Josefa was silent, and holding to her husband’s arm, took a turn with him up and down the piazza.

“Is it possible that there is no law to protect us; to protect our property; what does your lawyer say about obtaining redress or protection; is there no hope?” she asked, with a sigh.

“Protection for our land, or for our cattle, you mean?”

“For both, as we get it for neither,” she said.

“In the matter of our land, we have to await for the attorney general, at Washington, to decide.”

“Lizzie was telling Elvira, yesterday, that her uncle Lawrence is a friend of several influential people in Washington, and that George can get him to interest himself in having your title decided.”

“But, as George is to marry my daughter, he would be the last man from whom I would ask a favor.”

“What is that I hear about not asking a favor from me?” said George Mechlin, coming out on the piazza with Elvira on his arm, having just finished a waltz—“I am interested to know why you would not ask it.”

“You know why, my dear boy. It isn’t exactly the thing to bother you with my disagreeable business.”

“And why not? And who has a better right? And why should it be a bother to me to help you in any way I can? My father spoke to me about a dismissal of an appeal, and I made a note of it. Let me see, I think I have it in my pocket now,”—said George, feeling in his breast pocket for his memorandum book,—“yes, here it is,—‘For uncle to write to the attorney general about dismissing the appeal taken by the squatters in the Alamar grant, against Don Mariano’s title, which was approved.’ Is that the correct idea? I only made this note to ask you for further particulars.”

“You have it exactly. When I give you the number of the case, it is all that you need say to your uncle. What I want is to have the appeal dismissed, of course, but if the attorney general does not see fit to do so, he can, at least, remand back the case for a new trial. Anything rather than this killing suspense. Killing literally, for while we are waiting to have my title settled, the _settlers_ (I don’t mean to make puns), are killing my cattle by the hundred head, and I cannot stop them.”

“But are there no laws to protect property in California?” George asked.

“Yes, some sort of laws, which in my case seem more intended to help the law-breakers than to protect the law-abiding,” Don Mariano replied.

“How so? Is there no law to punish the thieves who kill your cattle?”

“There are some enactments so obviously intended to favor one class of citizens against another class, that to call them laws is an insult to law, but such as they are, we must submit to them. By those laws any man can come to my land, for instance, plant ten acres of grain, without any fence, and then catch my cattle which, seeing the green grass without a fence, will go to eat it. Then he puts them in a ‘_corral_’ and makes me pay damages and so much per head for keeping them, and costs of legal proceedings and many other trumped up expenses, until for such little fields of grain I may be obliged to pay thousands of dollars. Or, if the grain fields are large enough to bring more money by keeping the cattle away, then the settler shoots the cattle at any time without the least hesitation, only taking care that no one sees him in the act of firing upon the cattle. He might stand behind a bush or tree and fire, but then he is not seen. No one can swear that they saw him actually kill the cattle, and no jury can convict him, for although the dead animals may be there, lying on the ground shot, still no one saw the settler kill them. And so it is all the time. I must pay damages and expenses of litigation, or my cattle get killed almost every day.”

“But this is infamous. Haven’t you—the cattle owners—tried to have some law enacted that will protect your property?” George asked. “It seems to me that could be done.”

“It could be done, perhaps, if our positions were reversed, and the Spanish people—‘_the natives_’—were the planters of the grain fields, and the Americans were the owners of the cattle. But as we, the Spaniards, are the owners of the Spanish—or Mexican—land grants and also the owners of the cattle ranchos, our State legislators will not make any law to protect cattle. They make laws ‘_to protect agriculture_’ (they say proudly), which means to drive to the wall all owners of cattle ranchos. I am told that at this session of the legislature a law more strict yet will be passed, which will be ostensibly ‘to protect agriculture,’ but in reality to destroy cattle and ruin the native Californians. The agriculture of this State does not require legislative protection. Such pretext is absurd.”

“I thought that the rights of the Spanish people were protected by our treaty with Mexico,” George said.

“Mexico did not pay much attention to the future welfare of the children she left to their fate in the hands of a nation which had no sympathies for us,” said Doña Josefa, feelingly.