The California Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “Kate sometimes talks too much,” said the judge, “but in your case, I believe her confidence is well-founded. We were strangers to you, but you came to our aid, and we’ve repaid you by becoming a considerable burden. I like a man with compassion, Austin, and as Kate told you, I’m an admirer of your late uncle. I am willing to consider you as a potential partner, and if we can reach an agreement to your satisfaction and mine, we’ll establish the school in Texas. The Stephen Austin School of Law. Do you have some questions?”

  “One,” said Gil. “If you’re willing to go all the way back to Texas, why did you come all the way to California to begin with?”

  Donnegan laughed long and hard before he spoke.

  “You’ve seen me ride. Do you blame me for choosing an area that could be reached almost entirely by water?”

  “No,” Gil grinned, “I reckon I don’t.”

  “Besides that,” said Donnegan, “in my years on the bench, I accumulated some powerful enemies, and my first thought was to get as far from them as I could.”

  Gil said nothing, and the judge continued.

  “I have but two stipulations. The first is something I must ask you not to do, and the second is a personal favor to which I hope you will agree.”

  “I’m listening,” Gil said.

  “I want no money from you. This is my project, and I’d planned to fund it before I ever laid eyes on you. Now for the favor. As I’ve told you, my assets in New York are being liquidated. If my funds aren’t already in San Francisco, they soon will be. Except for travel money for Kate and me, I want you to take these funds—in gold—back to Texas with you.”

  “That’s some kind of responsibility,” Gil said. “How much gold?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars’ worth.”

  Gil whistled long and low.

  “You have the men to protect it,” said Judge Donnegan. “I do not. Will you do it?”

  “You sure it’ll be ready when we get to San Francisco?”

  “It should be,” said Judge Donnegan. “If it’s not there when we arrive, it won’t be long in coming. Could you not wait a few days, if you have to?”

  “Yeah,” Gil said, “I reckon I could. Is that all?”

  “One more thing. In your own handwriting, I want you to tell me all about yourself. What you say isn’t as important as how you say it. I think you have the makings of a lawyer, and I want to see how well you express yourself.”

  After supper, while it was still light, Gil took a stub of pencil and a ragged tablet from his saddlebag. With the rest of the outfit wondering what he was up to, he sat with his back against a pine and began to write. He wrote two pages, signing his name at the bottom of the second one. The following morning he would give the manuscript to Judge Donnegan. To Gil’s extreme satisfaction, on the sixth day after he’d taken in the unfortunate pair, the Donnegans were able to keep up to the drag riders. Gil resumed his duties as trail boss and began studying the map with an eye for San Francisco.

  “I figure we’re a day’s drive from the Cuyama River,” he said. “We’ll follow it northwest maybe thirty miles, until it turns west to the Pacific. From there we’ll continue northwest another thirty miles, to Santa Margarita lake.”

  They were within half a dozen miles of the point where Gil estimated they would reach the Cuyama River, when Mariposa left the horse herd and rode back to meet the oncoming longhorns. The Indian paused at the point, spoke to Ramon, and then rode on to find Gil. Mariposa wasted no words.

  “Fire come,” he said, pointing eastward.

  The wind was out of the northwest and told him nothing, but Gil could see a faint yellowing of the sky to the east. It didn’t look like smoke.

  “Take the horse herd,” Gil told Mariposa, “and head them just as hard as you can toward the Cuyama River!”

  Ramon was pointing toward the east long before Gil reached him.

  “We’re goin’ to have us a stampede, Ramon, so get ready. We have to make the Cuyama River ahead of that prairie fire!”

  “We mebbe got time,” Ramon said. “That not be smoke. Is dust.”

  It was dust, and by looking close, they could see the cause of it. A moving line of deer and antelope ran for their lives, and in their midst was a lumbering grizzly, seeking only to escape the flames. Finally they could see the coyotes and jackrabbits, and could hear the frightened chatter of the birds. Gil kicked his horse into a gallop and rode to warn the rest of the riders, if they didn’t already know. As they had traveled north, the terrain had changed. While there was still an abundance of chaparral, there was other vegetation. The tall dry grass brushed his stirrups. By the time he reached the drag, words were unnecessary. Smoke hung in a gray cloud in the sky to the east.

  “We’ll have to stampede the herd,” Gil shouted, “and try to reach the Cuyama River!”

  Van galloped his horse near the tag end of the herd, drew his Colt and began firing. The rest of the drag riders followed, whooping and swinging lariats. This was going to be the supreme test for the Donnegans, and the last word Gil had was for their benefit.

  “There’s a prairie fire coming! If we don’t reach the river, we’ll be roasted like grasshoppers. Ride!”

  Gil joined the drag riders as they forced the long-horns to run. The only advantage they had was that the fire was still a good distance away, but it was coming against the wind, and the flames would travel faster and burn hotter. Once the fire came close enough, closing in from the east, it would be all but impossible to keep the longhorns headed north. Their reaction to any danger was to flee from it, and if the stampede broke to the west, the steers would be directly in the path of an enemy they couldn’t possibly outrun. Gil looked again to the east, and the smoke against the blue of the sky seemed unchanged. The stampede had begun in earnest, with the sharp horns of the brutes behind providing ample incentive for their companions in the ranks ahead. The longhorns must hit the river at a dead run, with enough momentum to take the herd across. Otherwise the brutes would scatter to drink, and there was no time for that.

  “Keep the ranks closed,” Gil shouted. “Keep ’em tight!”

  Two steers were down. One had stepped in a hole and had a broken foreleg, and the other had been mortally gored. Gil shot them and rode on. The stampede thundered on, making the first hint of smoke all the more ominous. If the flames came close enough for them to smell the smoke against the wind, their race might be in vain. But no! Ahead Gil could see the leafy tops of distant trees. They were at the crest of a slope, and below them was a small valley through which the river would run. The herd tore out, hell-for-leather, toward the distant water, and Gil could tell when the lead steers hit it. That was always a critical time, for the herd seemed to pause, and the riders had to fight to keep the longhorns bunched and moving. The flank riders suddenly had a problem on their hands, as the farthest ranks of the herd became aware of the water ahead. But hard-riding drag riders kept the ranks tight, making it difficult for bunch quitters to break away. Finally the tag end of the herd splashed across the river, and the riders had an unpleasant surprise.

  “It’s deep enough,” Van said, “but mighty narrow. If the wind shifts, the fire could jump the water.”

  “More like spring branch than river,” Juan Padillo observed.

  “I smell the smoke,” Rosa said. “The fire comes closer.”

  There was the roar of Colts, as riders shot the steers gored in the river crossing. The Donnegans had fallen behind, but Gil could see them coming. The longhorns crowded the west bank of the river, seeking water. Mariposa and Estanzio had watered the horses and had taken them well beyond the river. Vegetation flourished along the riverbanks, most of it second growth, providing a dry first generation to fuel the oncoming flames.

  “This part of the river’s too narrow,” said Gil, “with too much brush overhanging the banks. The fire’s likely to just jump to the other bank and keep going. We’d better set some backfires as far up- and downriver as we can, in the time th
at we have. I want Van, Ramon, Vicente, and Pedro to come with me. The rest of you cross and begin driving the longhorns away from the river.”

  Gil led his companions a hundred yards east of the riverbank. They cut the tops from young pines to beat out the flames, and then positioned themselves thirty yards apart, paralleling the distant riverbank. Here there was only grass, and without heavy brush and chaparral to feed the flames, their backfires could be controlled. Carefully they set their fires, and just before the flames reached the heavy brush along the river, the backfire was beaten out. Gil and Vicente worked their way downriver, and after a few hundred yards found that the stream had begun to widen. The soil had become sandier, and the river had made itself a wider channel. The fire approaching from the east was now close enough for them to see the flames, as clumps of chaparral became huge fiery torches.

  “Come on, Vicente,” Gil shouted, “we’ve done all we can do.”

  Van, Pedro, and Ramon had seen the oncoming flames, and moved to join Gil and Vicente at the point from which the five of them had started.

  “We took it as far as we could,” Van said. “River widens some upstream, and we backfired it that far.”

  “About the way it is downstream,” Gil said. “I reckon we’ve burned off the stretch where the fire might have crossed. At some distant point up- or downstream, it still might cross, but we’ll have to risk that. Now let’s get across the river and keep the longhorns from gettin’ skittish as the fire comes closer.”

  “They be tired from running,” said Ramon.

  “I hope you’re right,” Gil said. “They ought to be pretty well used up, and with the fire not comin’ too close, I think we can hold them.”

  “I wonder what happened to the grizzly and the rest of the critters that hit the river ahead of the herd?” Van said.

  “They crossed and kept running,” said Gil. “They didn’t know the fire would stop at the river. There’s been no lightning, and I’m wondering who started that fire, and why. I reckon we’d best ride careful.”

  They watched the flames advance, and as the smoke reached them, a few of the steers bawled uneasily. But they didn’t run again, and when the wind died at sundown, the fire burned itself out against the barren stretch that had been backfired.

  “Next two days ought to be easy,” Gil said. “We follow the Cuyama north maybe thirty miles. Plenty of water all the way.”

  The Donnegans seemed to be going out of their way to avoid antagonizing the rest of the outfit, but Gil reckoned there would be trouble enough when they learned he aimed to stop in San Francisco. Especially when they discovered the purpose.

  Gil had the drive on the trail at first light, traveling north along the Cuyama. With an assurance of water, the longhorns were allowed to trail at a gait to their liking, so there were no bunch quitters. They were about two hours into the day when, somewhere ahead, there came the ominous rattle of gunfire.

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Gil said. “I reckon we’d better stop the drive until we know what’s going on.”

  Taking Van, Ramon, Vicente, Pedro, and Juan Padillo with him, Gil rode ahead. He found Mariposa and Estanzio were holding the horses, waiting for him.

  “Hold them here,” Gil told the Indian duo, “until we return.”

  The firing continued, and from the pattern of it, a group of antagonists were attacking a lone defender. The riders soon found his position ahead of them, behind some rocks at a bend in the river. While they were unable to see him, they could see his horse behind concealing chaparral. Once the besieged man had fired, no less than eight attackers opened up on his position.

  “Shuck your rifles,” Gil told his men. “Not much firepower, but maybe enough to cover that poor devil until he can get away.”

  Gil and his riders dismounted, leaving their horses concealed near the river. On foot they climbed a ridge, making their way north until they overlooked the positions of the attackers. Gil waited until there was a lull in the shooting and shouted a warning.

  “You hombres burnin’ all the powder, just hold your fire. I have enough rifles up here to even the odds.”

  “This ain’t none of your affair,” an angry voice shouted. “Stay out of it.”

  “I’m makin’ it my affair,” Gil said. “You behind the rocks, get your horse and ride.”

  There was movement below, where the attackers were concealed, and Gil sent a slug screaming into the brush. It came close enough to leave its intended target swearing. There was no more movement from the attackers’ position. The lone defender had moved with the stealth of an Indian, coming up the ridge leading his horse, seeking his rescuers. He was Mexican, not far out of his teens, if that. He wore moccasins, was dressed entirely in buckskin, his hat broad-brimmed with a pointed crown. His left arm hung useless, the buckskin sleeve bloody.

  “Pardner, you need some doctorin’,” Gil said.

  “Gracias,” said the Mexican youth, “but there is no time. Already you will have trouble enough. Adios, amigos. Joaquin Murrietta does not forget.”

  Once he had topped the ridge, he swung into the saddle and was gone. Gil turned his attention back to the attackers.

  “Now you gents can come out into the open, but keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Slowly they emerged from behind bushes, trees, and rocks.

  “I reckon there’s some good reason,” Gil said, “why eight of you coyotes are gunnin’ for one man.”

  “Damn right there is,” said one of the men angrily. “That no account Mex is Joaquin Murrietta, a thief and a killer. We trailed the bastard all the way from Diablo Plains.”

  “I have no proof of that,” said Gil. “Are you the law?”

  “Damn right we’re the law.”

  “I don’t see a badge,” Gil said.

  “Don’t make no diff’rence.”

  “It does to me,” said Gil. “Now mount up and ride back the way you came.”

  “Mister,” said the self-appointed leader, “far as I’m concerned, your bunch is part of the Murrietta gang. We’ll meet again, when you ain’t got the drop.” They mounted their horses and rode away.

  “They want him almighty bad,” Gil said. “The yellow coyotes tried to burn him out. They set that fire, and he crossed the river north of us.”

  “I kind of wish you hadn’t run ’em out of here so quick,” said Van, “so we could have learned what town they’re from. I’d like to avoid it.”

  “No matter,” Gil said. “This was my decision, and if there’s trouble on down the trail, it’ll be mine. If that bunch feels froggy enough, they can jump me. Let’s get back to the herd.”

  June 25, 1850. Approaching the La Panza Mountains

  In the southern foothills of the La Panza Mountains, the Cuyama turned due west on its way to the Pacific.

  “From here,” Gil said, “we’re thirty miles south of Santa Margarita lake, and our map shows no water in between. I’ll ride ahead and see if there’s a spring. If not, it’s dry camp.”

  Gil rode northwest through the La Panza foothills, and soon found himself surrounded by towering ponderosa pines. There were other trees, totally unfamiliar to him, and Gil reined up. They were so tall—more than three hundred feet, he guessed—he could barely see the tops of them.*

  The forest was cool, the sun having to fight its way through dense foliage. Some stands of trees grew so thick, it was impossible for Gil to ride through them. The Texas steers, with their massive horn spreads, weren’t going to find it easy getting through. Their drive through the forest would be slow, but somewhere the length of this mountain range, there had to be water. Gil saw rabbit, deer, and coyote tracks, and though he watched for bees, he was unable to see them in the gloom of the forest. Suddenly his horse snorted and surged ahead. The water tumbled off a rock shelf into a large pool and then babbled away as a respectable runoff. Gil watered his horse and took a long drink himself. The water was cold, the most satisfying he’d had since leaving the Sierra Madr
e foothills. Bearing the good news, he rode back to meet the drive, estimating the distance at about twelve miles.

  “We’re about eighteen miles south of Santa Margarita lake,” Gil said as they began their second day’s drive through the huge forest.

  The Donnegans now rode well enough to keep up to the longhorns, and although Gil hadn’t spent any more time with Kate, she smiled at him often. Rosa ignored him with a similar consistency, smiling not at all. Their second day in the heavily forested La Panza foothills was more difficult than the first. They constantly lost time guiding the longhorns around heavy stands of timber. One old steer began hooking a huge ponderosa, forcing Ramon and Pedro to rope the brute and drag him away. Gil rode out at noon, mostly to look at the terrain ahead, hoping there were no steep drop-offs or canyons. They’d lost so much time getting through the forest, he was almost sure they’d have to run the herd if they reached water before dark. With that in mind, he paused to talk to Estanzio and Mariposa.

  “Take the horses on to water,” he told them, “and then move them away from the water to graze.”

  When they finally emerged from the forest, the elevation was sufficient for them to see the blue of the Pacific, twenty miles to the west. It had been a long, tiring day, and the longhorns began to bawl their thirst and frustration.

  “Thank God there’s no wind,” Van said, “or these brutes would be on their way to the ocean by now.”

  “We’ll never reach Santa Margarita lake before dark,” said Gil, “unless we run the herd the rest of the way. We’d need a good two hours, and we have only one.”

  Again they forced the longhorns to run, driving them northwest. Santa Margarita lake was an elongated body of water, stretching westward as far as they could see. Mariposa and Estanzio had watered the horses and had taken them to graze, so there was plenty of room for the thirsty longhorns. After supper, Gil spent some time with the map. They were 120 miles from Coyote lake, just south of San Jose. Gil figured it at sixty miles from San Jose to the eastern shore of San Francisco Bay.