The Squatter and the Don. María Amparo Ruiz de Burton

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.

       Table of Contents

      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.”