The Squatter and the Don. María Amparo Ruiz de Burton

      “You just inform yourself better, by asking a polite question or two of my parents. They will tell you that I am just twenty-one years and two days old, and I can prove it by our family Bible and certificate of baptism. I am a Christian, I am, though you don't seem to be, judging by your cursing—and as for my beard, you be patient, and you'll see it, for it is coming as fast as your gray hairs.”

      “Why didn't you say you wanted this place?” he growled.

      “What a question!” I answered. “You ask it because you don't see my beard, but I feel it pushing ahead with all its might. I didn't tell you, because we ain't exactly bosom friends, and because that is not the style in which we settlers do business. I kept dark, hoping that you would hold on a while longer, trying to get a bigger price for your place from Mr. Mechlin. I watched you, and when you let Saturday pass I knew this sweet little spot was mine—for on Saturday I was twenty-one, and you couldn't sign your conveyance to Mr. Mechlin until Monday. To-day is Tuesday, Mr. Mathews, I shall be twenty-one years and three days old at 11 o'clock A.M. this day, if I live five hours longer.”

      “I don't believe a word. You ain't twenty-one. 'Tis a lie!”

      “No, it ain't,” my father said, coming from the cabin.

      “Then he is a jumper. He's jumped my claim.”

      “No, he ain't. Look here, Mathews,” said father, dragging his rifle along as if it was a dead cat, “you know well it is yourself who is lying when you say that. You had no right to this claim while you held the other.”

      “But I put up my notice that I was going to locate here.”

      “Now, don't be silly,” said father, leaning on his rifle. “It is painful to my feelings to hear a grey-headed man talk like a child. You might have put twenty notices—what of that? The law don't allow any circus performances like that, and if it did, you ain't a good enough performer to ride two horses at once.”

      “I think it is a mean performance on your part, too, coming here to steal a march on me.”

      “A mean performance, you say? Do you remember how I had my notices up and my stakes on the ground, six years ago, and when I went to town to bring my lumber, you jumped my claim? My boy has just barely returned the compliment.”

      “I'll be even with you yet,” said he, climbing into his wagon, and beginning to whip his horses, and swear at us worse than ever.

      “The same to you; the same to you,” father would say, as if answering prayers, and then we both laughed heartily.

      “That is not the worst, but that you jumped the claim of his affections,” said Tom, whereupon all laughed, and Fanny bashfully hung down her head.

      Voices calling them to dinner were now heard, and they returned to the picnic grounds.

      No banquet of the Iliad warriors surpassed this, showing that the settlers of Alamar had found the Don's land and the laws of Congress very good.

      The elder Mrs. Hancock and Mrs. Pittikin were proud of having given a banquet which no other settler would dare surpass in Alamar.

      When the dessert was being served, Clarence said, “We must drink to the bride and groom.” All agreed that it should be done.

      He arose and made a neat little speech, which was so “sweetly pretty,” Mr. P. said, that it brought tears to the eyes of Mrs. Pittikin and Mrs. Hancock, the elder.

      This put Clarence's popularity beyond doubt.

      “Fill your glasses, for I have something to say to Mr. Clarence Darrell, but we must first drink his health,” said Mr. Pittikin.

      “Here is to our friends, the Darrell family, but more particularly to Mr. Clarence. We respect him, we like him, we are proud of him;”—all drank—“and I now take the occasion to say to Mr. Darrell, in the presence of our friends here, that I fulfilled my promise to him, and have spoken to our friends here, the heads of families, and they will speak to those who are not present, and we will meet to hear what the Don has to say.”

      “But we don't promise to accept any proposition, if it don't suit each one, no matter what anybody votes,” said old Hughes.

      “That is understood; we want to be polite, that's all,” explained Mr. Pittikin.

      “And that is all I have requested,” Clarence said. “I do not ask any one to accept any proposition against his will.”

      “That is fair enough,” said old Hancock.

      “And little enough, considering we are in possession of land that the Don believes to be his own,” said Romeo.

      “But it ain't,” said old Hager.

      “It has been for more than fifty years,” Romeo asserted.

      “But he lost it by not complying with the law,” said Hughes.

      “Yes, if he had not neglected his rights, his title would not have been rejected; he went to sleep for eight years, and his right was outlawed,” said Miller.

      “That was the fault of his lawyers, perhaps,” Clarence said.

      “Of course it was, but he should have watched his lawyers. The trouble is, that you can't teach ‘an old dog new tricks.’ Those old Spaniards never will be business men,” said Pittikin, sententiously.

      It was finally agreed that Clarence would call on Mr. Mechlin that evening, to notify him that the settlers would meet the Don on Monday afternoon at 2 o'clock on the porch of Gasbang's house.

      CHAPTER V.—The Don in his Broad Acres.

       Table of Contents

      “The one great principle of English law,”—Charles Dickens says, “is to make business for itself. There is no other principle distinctly, certainly and consistently maintained through all its narrow turnings. Viewed by this light, it becomes a coherent scheme, and not the monstrous maze the laity are apt to think it. Let them but once clearly perceive that its grand principle is to make business for itself at their expense, and surely they will cease to grumble.”

      The one great principle of American law is very much the same; our law-givers keep giving us laws and then enacting others to explain them. The lawyers find plenty of occupation, but what becomes of the laity?

      “No. 189. An Act to ascertain and settle the private land claims in the State of California,” says the book.

      And by a sad subversion of purposes, all the private land titles became unsettled. It ought to have been said, “An Act to unsettle land titles, and to upset the rights of the Spanish population of the State of California.”

      It thus became not only necessary for the Spanish people to present their titles for revision, and litigate to maintain them (in case of any one contesting their validity, should the least irregularity be discovered, and others covet their possession), but to maintain them against the government before several tribunals; for the government, besides making its own laws, appeals to itself as against the land-owners, after their titles might have been approved. But this benign Act says (in “Sec. 11”), “That the Commissioners, the District and Supreme Courts, in deciding on the validity of any claim, shall be governed by the treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo; the law of nations; the laws, usages, and customs of the government from which the claim is derived; the principles of equity, and the decisions of the Supreme Court of the United States, etc., etc.”

      Thus the government washes its hands clean, liberally providing plenty of tribunals, plenty of crooked turnings through which to scourge the wretched land-owners.

      Don Mariano had been for some years under the lash of the maternal government, whom he had found a cruel stepmother, indeed.

      As it