Читать книгу The Squatter and the Don - María Amparo Ruiz de Burton - Страница 8

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“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 was arranged with Clarence, the meeting would take place that day on the broad piazza of John Gasbang's house, this being the most central point in the rancho.

The heads of families all came—the male heads, be it understood—as the squatters did not make any pretence to regard female opinion, with any more respect than other men.

All the benches and chairs that the house contained, with the exception of Mrs. Gasbang's sewing rocker, had been brought to the porch, which was quite roomy and airy.

At ten minutes before two, all the settlers were there, that is to say, all the old men, with their elder sons.

Clarence, Romeo, Tom and Jack, sat together in a corner, conversing in low tones, while Gasbang was entertaining his guests with some broad anecdotes, which brought forth peals of laughter.

At five minutes to two, Señor Alamar, accompanied by Mr. Mechlin, arrived in a buggy; his two sons followed on horseback.

Clarence had time to look at them leisurely, while they dismounted, and tied their horses to a hitching post.

“They are gentlemen, no doubt,” observed Clarence.

“You bet they are,” Romeo coincided. Evidently he admired and liked them.

“How much the boys look like the old man,” Tom said.

“They look like Englishmen,” was Clarence's next observation.

“Yes, particularly Victoriano; he is so light he looks more like a German, I think,” said Romeo.

“I think Gabriel is very handsome,” Tom said, “only of late he seems always so sad or thoughtful.”

“That won't do for a man who is to marry soon,” said Romeo. “I think he has always been rather reserved. He has only a cold salutation to give, while Victoriano will be laughing and talking to everybody. But, perhaps, you are right, and he is changed. I think he is less reconciled than the others, to have us, settlers, helping ourselves to what they consider their land. He certainly was far more talkative four or five years ago. I used to work with them in ploughing and harvesting time, and both boys, and the Don, were always very kind to me, and I can't help liking them.”

“The ladies, though, ain't so affable. They are very proud,” said Tom; “they walk like queens.”

“They didn't seem proud to me, but I never spoke to them,” said Romeo.

Gasbang went forward to meet his guests, and all came into the porch.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said Don Mariano to the settlers, lifting his hat and bowing. His sons and Mr. Mechlin did the same. Clarence arose, and so did the other young men with him, returning their salutation. The elder Darrell, Pittikin and Hughes followed this example; the other settlers nodded only, and remained sitting with their hats on, looking with affected indifference at the trees beyond.

“I thank you for your courtesy in complying with my request to have this meeting,” he said. Some nodded, others grinned and winked, others smiled silently.

“Take this chair, Señor, and you, Mr. Mechlin, take this one. They are the best in my establishment,” said Gasbang. “The young gentlemen will find seats somewhere on the benches.”

Clarence came forward and offered three chairs. Mr. Mechlin took his arm and presented him to the Alamars.

“I take pleasure in making your acquaintance, and I hope to have the opportunity to thank you for your kind co-operation more appropriately afterward,” said Don Mariano. His sons shook hands with Clarence cordially, and accepted the proffered chairs.

Don Mariano excused himself for not speaking English more fluently.

“If you don't understand me I will repeat my words until I make my meaning clear, but I hope you will ask me to repeat them; or, perhaps, some one of these young gentlemen will do me the kindness to be my interpreter,” said he.

“Romeo talks Spanish; he can interpret for you,” said Victoriano.

“You talk English better,” Romeo proudly replied, thinking he could tell his wife that the Don had asked him to be his interpreter.

“Perhaps Mr. Clarence Darrell would do me the favor,” said Don Mariano.

“You speak very good English, señor. We understand you perfectly. You do not require an interpreter,” Clarence said.

“That is so; you speak very well,” said Mr. Mechlin.

Gasbang and Pittikin added: “Certainly, we understand him very well.”

“Of course we do,” said Darrell and others.

“You are very kind,” said the Don, smiling, “and I will try to be brief, and not detain you long.”

“We have all the afternoon,” said Hughes.

“That's so, we ain't in a hurry,” said several.

“Only let us out in time to bring the milch cows home, before night comes on,” said old Miller, dryly.

“Exactly, we want to look after our cows, too,” said the Don, laughing.

All saw the fine irony of the rejoinder, and laughed heartily. Miller scratched his ear, as if he had felt the retort there, knowing well, that with the exception of Mathews and Gasbang, he had killed and “corraled” more of the Don's cattle than any other settler.

“Speaking about cows, brings us at once to the object of this meeting,”—Don Mariano, still smiling, went on, saying: “You know that I have lost many, and that it is natural I should wish to save those I have left. To do this, and yet not ask that you give up your claims, I have one or two propositions to make to you. The reason why you have taken up land here is because you want homes. You want to make money. Isn't that the reason? Money! money!”

“That's it, exactly,” said many voices, and all laughed.

“Well, I can show you how you may keep your homes and make more money than you can by your present methods, while at the same time, I also save my cattle. That little point, you know, I must keep in view.”

All laughed again.

“To fence your fields, you have said, is too expensive, particularly as the rainy seasons are too uncertain to base upon them any calculations for getting crops to pay for fencing. I believe this is what most of you say; is it not?”

“We could have raised better crops if your cattle hadn't damaged them,” said Mathews.

“I beg to differ; but supposing that you are right, do you think you could be sure of good crops if you killed all my stock, or if I took them all away to the mountains? No, most assuredly. The rainy season would still be irregular and unreliable, I think. Yes, I may say, I feel sure, it is a mistake to try to make San Diego County a grain-producing county. It is not so, and I feel certain it never will be, to any great extent. This county is, and has been, and will be always, a good grazing county—one of the best counties for cattle-raising on this coast, and the very best for fruit-raising on the face of the earth. God intended it should be. Why, then, not devote your time, your labor and your money to raising vineyards, fruits and cattle, instead of trusting to the uncertain rains to give you grain crops?”

“It takes a long time to get fruit trees to bearing. What are we to do for a living in the meantime?” asked Miller.

“Begin raising cattle—that will support you,” the Don replied.

“Where is the capital to buy cattle with?” Gasbang asked.

“You don't require any more capital than you already have. I can let each of you have a number of cows to begin with, and give you four or five years' time to pay me. So you see, it will be with the increase of these cattle you will pay, for I shall charge you no interest.”

“What do you expect us to do in return? To give back to you our homesteads?” asked Hughes.

“No, sir; I have said, and repeat again, you will retain your homesteads.”

“And will you stop contesting our claims?” asked Mathews.

“I will, and will give each one a quit-claim deed.”

“You will not fight our claims, but you don't want us to plant grain on our land,” said Gasbang.

“You can plant grain, if you like, but to do so you must fence your land; so, as you all say, that fencing is expensive, I suggest your fencing orchards and vineyards only, but not grain fields—I mean large fields.”

“Pshaw! I knew there was to be something behind all that display of generosity,” muttered Mathews.

Don Mariano reddened with a thrill of annoyance, but quietly answered:

“You are too good business men to suppose that I should not reserve some slight advantage for myself, when I am willing you should have many more yourselves. All I want to do is to save the few cattle I have left. I am willing to quit-claim to you the land you have taken, and give you cattle to begin the stock business, and all I ask you in return is to put a fence around whatever land you wish to cultivate, so that my cattle cannot go in there. So I say, plant vineyards, plant olives, figs, oranges; makes wines and oil and raisins; export olives and dried and canned fruits. I had some very fine California canned fruit sent to me from San Francisco. Why could we not can fruits as well, or better? Our olives are splendid—the same our figs, oranges, apricots, and truly all semi-tropical fruits are of a superior quality. When this fact becomes generally known, I feel very sure that San Diego County will be selected for fruit and grape-growing. In two years grape vines begin to bear; the same with figs, peaches and other fruits. At three years old they bear quite well, and all without irrigation. So you would not have to wait so very long to begin getting a return from your labor and capital. Moreover, an orchard of forty acres or vineyard of twenty will pay better after three years' growth than one hundred and sixty acres of wheat or barley in good seasons, and more than three hundred acres of any grain in moderately good seasons, or one thousand acres in bad seasons. You can easily fence twenty or forty or sixty acres for a vineyard or orchard, but not so easily fence a field of one hundred and sixty, and the grain crop would be uncertain, depending on the rains, but not so the trees, for you can irrigate them, and after the trees are rooted that is not required.”

“Where is the water to irrigate?” asked Miller.

“The water is in the sea now, for there we let it go every year; but if we were sensible, judicious men, we would not let it go to waste—we would save it. This rancho has many deep ravines which bring water from hills and sierras. These ravines all open into the valleys, and run like so many little rivers in the rainy season. By converting these ravines into reservoirs we could have more water than would be needed for irrigating the fruit trees on the foothills. In the low valleys no irrigation would be needed. If we all join forces to put up dams across the most convenient of these ravines, we will have splendid reservoirs. I will defray half the expense if you will get together and stand the other half. Believe me, it will be a great God-send to have a thriving, fruit-growing business in our county. To have the cultivated land well fenced, and the remainder left out for grazing. Then there would not be so many thousands upon thousands of useless acres as now have to be. For every ten acres of cultivated land (not fenced) there are ten thousand, yes, twenty thousand, entirely idle, useless. Why? Because those ten acres of growing grain must be protected, and the cattle which don't know the ‘no fence’ law, follow their inclination to go and eat the green grass. Then they are ‘corralled’ or killed. Is it not a pity to kill the poor dumb brutes, because we can't make them understand the law, and see the wisdom of our Sacramento legislators who enacted it? And is it not a pity to impoverish our county by making the bulk of its land useless? The foolishness of letting all of the rainfall go to waste, is an old time folly with us. Still, in old times, we had, at least, the good excuse that we raised all the fruits we needed for our use, and there was no market for any more. But we were not then, as now, guilty of the folly of making the land useless. We raised cattle and sold hides and tallow every year, and made money. When gold was discovered, we drove our stock north, got a good price for it, and made money. But now no money will be made by anybody out of cattle, if they are to be destroyed, and no money made out of land, for the grazing will be useless, when there will be no stock left to eat it. Thus, the county will have no cattle, and the crops be always uncertain. Believe me, in years to come, you will see that the county was impoverished by the ‘no fence law,’ unless we try to save our county, in spite of foolish legislation. If our wise legislators could enact a law obliging rain to come, so that we could have better chances to raise grain, then there would be some show of excuse for the ‘no fence law,’ perhaps. I say PERHAPS, because, in my humble opinion, we ought to prefer cattle raising and fruit growing for our county. We should make these our specialty.”

“I think it would be much more foolish to trust to a few cows to make out a living while trees grow,” said Miller, “than to the seasons to give us grain crops.”

“No, sir; because cattle are sure to increase, if they are not killed, and you could make cheese and butter, and sell your steers every year, while trees grow. You have been seven years a settler on this rancho. In these seven years you have raised two good crops; three poor, or only middling, and two, no crops at all.”

“Yes, because your cattle destroyed them,” said Mathews.

“No, sir; my cattle were not all over California; but the bad seasons were, and only in few places, moderately good crops were harvested; in the southern counties none at all. We had rains enough to get sufficiently good grazing, but not to raise grain.”

“I think you are right about the uncertainty of our seasons, and I think a good dairy always pays well, also a good orchard and vineyard,” said Darrell. “But the question is, whether we can adopt some feasible plan to put your idea into practice.”

“Yes, how many cows will you let us have?” asked Hager.

“I will divide with you. Next week I shall have my ‘rodeo.’ We can see then the number of cattle I have left. We shall count them. I shall take half, the other half you divide pro rata; each head of a family taking a proportionate number of cattle.”

“That is fair,” Darrell said.

“I don't want any cattle. I ain't no ‘vaquero’ to go ‘busquering’ around and lassooing cattle. I'll lasso myself; what do I know about whirling a lariat?” said Mathews.

“Then, don't take cattle. You can raise fruit trees and vineyards,” said Darrell.

“Yes, and starve meantime,” Mathews replied.

“You will not have to be a vaquero. I don't go ‘busquering’ around lassooing, unless I wish to do so,” said the Don. “You can hire an Indian boy to do that part. They know how to handle la reata and echar el lazo to perfection. You will not starve, either, for if you wish, you can make butter and cheese enough to help to pay expenses. I think this State ought to make and export as good cheese as it now imports, and some day people will see it, and do it, too. Thus, with the produce of your dairies, at first, and afterward with your fruits, you will do far better than with grain crops, and not work as hard. Let the northern counties raise grain, while we raise fruits and make wine, butter and cheese. You must not forget, either, that every year you can sell a number of cattle, besides keeping as many milch cows as you need.”

“Where can we sell our cattle?” asked Hancock.

“Cattle-buyers will come to buy from you. But if you prefer it, you can drive your stock north yourselves, and make a good profit. Since 1850, I have sent nine times droves of cattle to the northern counties, and made a handsome profit every time. The first time we took stock north, was in '50; I took nearly six thousand head—three thousand were mine—and the others belonged to my brothers. We lost very few, and sold at a good price—all the way from eighteen to twenty-five dollars per head. About five hundred of mine I sold as high as thirty dollars per head. I made sixty thousand dollars by this operation. Then out of the next lot I made twenty-seven thousand dollars. Then I made twenty-two thousand, and so on, until my tame cows began to disappear, as you all know. In four years after my cows began to get shot, my cattle decreased more than half. Now I don't think I have many more than three thousand head. So you cannot blame me for wishing to save these few. But believe me, the plan I propose will be as beneficial to you as to me, and also to the entire county, for as soon as it is shown that we can make a success of the industries I propose, others will follow our example.”

“If you have only three thousand head, you can't spare many to us, and it will hardly be worth while to stop planting crops to get a few cows,” said Gasbang.

“I think I will be able to spare five or six hundred cows. I don't know how many I have left.”

“We will buy from somebody else, if we want more,” said Darrell. “We won't want many to begin with; it will be something of an experiment for some of us.”

“For all of us here. Perhaps you understand vaquering; we don't,” said Hancock; all laughed.

“Then fence your claim and plant grain,” Darrell retorted.

“I am not so big a fool as to spend money in fences. The ‘no fence’ law is better than all the best fences,” Mathews said.

“But what if you make more money by following other laws that are more just, more rational?” said the Don.

“The ‘no fence’ law is rational enough for me,” said Miller.

“And so say I,” said Mathews.

“And I,” said Gasbang.

Hughes nodded approvingly, but he was too much of a hypocrite to commit himself in words.

“We did not come to discuss the ‘no fence’ law, but only to propose something that will put more money in your pockets than killing dumb beasts,” said Mr. Mechlin.

“Then propose something practicable,” said Mathews.

“I think what has been proposed is practicable enough,” Darrell said.

“Certainly it is,” Mr. Mechlin added.

“I don't see it,” said Mathews.

“Nor I, either,” added Gasbang.

“Nor I, neither,” said Hughes.

“Well, gentlemen,” said Don Mariano, rising, “I shall leave you now; you know my views, and you perhaps prefer to discuss them, and discuss your own among yourselves, and not in my presence. Take your time, and when you come to a final decision let me know. Perhaps I can advance the money to those of you who do not have it ready to purchase fencing lumber. I shall charge no interest, and give you plenty of time to pay.”

“I will do that, Señor Alamar,” Clarence said; “if the settlers agree to fence their lands, I will advance the money to them to put up their fences.”

“Yes, and if our crops fail, we will be in debt to the ears, with a chain around our necks,” Mathews growled.

“I thought you said that if it were not for my cattle, your crops would not have failed,” said Don Mariano, smiling.

“I said so, and it is so. But you see, that was before we had the ‘no fence’ law,” answered he, grinning.

Don Mariano shook hands with Clarence, whom he invited to call at his house—this invitation Clarence accepted with warm thanks—and followed by his sons and his friend Mr. Mechlin, Don Mariano took his leave, bowing to the settlers, who nodded and grinned in return.

“I suppose you, too, think the ‘no fence’ law iniquitous, as you appear to favor the aristocracy,” said Gasbang to Clarence.

“It is worse than that, it is stupid. Now it kills the cattle, afterwards it will kill the county,” Clarence answered.

“Shall we plant no wheat, because the Spaniards want to raise cattle?” Mathews asked.

“Plant wheat, if you can do so without killing cattle. But do not destroy the larger industry with the smaller. If, as the Don very properly says, this is a grazing county, no legislation can change it. So it would be wiser to make laws to suit the county, and not expect that the county will change its character to suit absurd laws,” Clarence replied.