Writing Honorable Mention: “El Camino Real”

Photography Honorable Mention: “Last Stop Lomita” by Tim Schall

by M.A. Cohen

“Gold!” cried Jacques.  “I’ve been digging for gold!  Near Sutter’s Mill.” Jacque’s married friends, John and Francisca Scott, stared at the golden nuggets then back at him.  The young couple knew what this meant.

All of the ranchos on the Palos Verdes peninsula were experiencing a draught. Their cattle would die soon if they didn’t seek greener pastures. John also found it more difficult to trade at the Los Angeles pueblo now that the Chinese peddlers were walking the area selling imports like those he had brought back from the Orient.  “How long does it take to get to Sutter’s Mill?” John asked.

“Not as long as it’s taking all the prospectors coming west by wagon train! Still, we must hurry to stake our claim!  John, will you join me? We’ve been successful as partners before, as traders.”

“Yes, but that was before I married Francisca. What will become of this ranch she and I have worked so hard to build?”

Jacques pleaded, “This moment will never come again!”

It was 1849, one year after the treaty with Mexico that established California as a United States territory. Settlers were grabbing all the land and gold they could.  “Your belle Francisca can manage here.  Captain McGreer’s clipper ship just docked in San Pedro harbor.  We can travel up with him.”

“Travel by ocean?” John sighed. “Oh no, I get seasick!”

Francisca smiled to herself.  “Good! He won’t go!” she thought.

“I’ll go by land.”

“What?” Francisca frowned at John.

John looked at her pragmatically, “I’ll herd our cattle north with some of our vaqueros.  All those Argonauts looking for gold need to eat sometime.”

“It’s true,” said Jacques. “In fact, since the gold rush, there’s a shortage of everything from beef to China. I’ll go by ship to transport all of that merchandise you’ve been trying to sell. You’ll get more for it than you ever dreamed!  I’ll meet you where McGreer docks in the San Francisco Bay at Yerba Buena.”

“Agreed!  Can you manage the ranch without me for a while, Francisca?”  The partners looked hopefully at her, but she knew she had no choice.  Selling the cattle in gold country would save the ranch.

Francisca hated being alone, but she kept busy farming and cooking for the few vaqueros who tended the remaining livestock.  However, when months went by with no word from John, she started to worry.  The gold rush attracted plenty of bad men. Word had it that John Sutter was helpless in stopping the flow of squatters on his land.  There were ex-convicts from Australia, gamblers and drunken sailors. Praying for John’s safety, she watched Aunt Tia steer her ox-drawn carreta up the garden path.  Stiffly the older woman stepped down and greeted Francisca with a hug.

“A letter from Captain Mc Greer for you.  His ship returned to San Pedro. Says he has news of your husband.”

Francisca cried, “Thank you, Tia!” Tearing open the letter, she read, “ Jacques disembarked in Yerba Buena and found John –I can’t make it out…  The ink has smeared.  Looks like J __ Oh dear! John has smallpox.  Tia, people die from that!  I have to go to him!”

“Too dangerous for a woman alone!”

If I lose John, life is over for me anyway.  That half breed boy on your ranch – could he guide me along El Camino Real?”

Tia sighed, “Yes, if you must, take him and a pack mule, but I insist you also take a protector, one of your vaqueros.”

That was a problem.  There were none to spare.  Francisca saddled up and rode to neighboring Rancho Dominguez.  John had helped the Spaniards to protect it in the 1846 Mexican American war.  Perhaps Don Dominguez would lend her a trustworthy horseman to accompany her. That’s where she met Anton, who would share her journey that summer.

Anton tied up his bedroll and packed his saddlebags. The half-breed, Little Crow, was in charge of provisions like flour and coffee that he stuffed in the mule’s bags.  Francisca’s saddlebags contained a small pistol, though she had no idea how to use it. She hoped she wouldn’t have to.

Tia and neighboring families who gathered to see them off waited for Francisca outside her adobe.  She was in a quandary about riding sidesaddle in a skirt on such a long trip.  “Impossible,” she mused as she stripped to her pantaloons in defiance and strut outside.

Anton burst out laughing and the children giggled, but Francisca swiftly mounted and kicked her horse. That started the journey abruptly, but spared her prolonged embarrassment and teary goodbyes.

Holding her head high, she glared at the vaquero as he steered ahead. He looked shady with his long dark ponytail and thin mustache.  Like his Spanish ancestors, he wore a broad-brimmed hat, short embroidered jacket and a sash around his waist. He sported all sorts of weapons that made her uneasy.

She began to miss John. “ Why did he have to run off looking for gold anyway?” she muttered.

“What?” asked Anton.

“Nothing.”

“Little Crow! Vamos!”  He called back to the boy leading the sluggish mule.

It would take weeks to get to Yerba Buena.  Francisca’s anxiety turned to anger with John.  If it weren’t for his greed, he would never have caught smallpox.  Taking a break from the hot dusty trail, they stopped by a stream.  She dismounted to let her horse drink and graze.  Soon, Little Crow caught up to them smiling.

“Stop there!” Anton cried out to the boy, in whose path laid a rattlesnake.  Anton, with all of his weapons, couldn’t get a hand on one as his horse reared at the hissing snake.  Little Crow froze.  Francisca fumbled for her pistol, took aim and shot it dead.  Anton ran for the boy, steadied the animals and looked around for Francisca, who had flipped down onto the grass from the force of the shot.

Extending a hand to pull her up, Anton was laughing at her – again!  “Senora, may I teach you how to properly use a gun?”

The first thing Francisca did that night around their campfire was to cut and sew a skirt up the middle to make gauchos for riding that she hoped would stop some of the teasing, though clearly Anton enjoyed seeing her blush.  The next thing was to allow him to teach her about guns, knowing they were headed to a lawless area.  What she didn’t expect was the attraction she felt to Anton when he held his arm against hers to steady her aim.

Anxious as she was, Francisca loved seeing California from its’ sandy shores by the blue Pacific to its’ steep mountains.  Vineyards and fruit trees provided food along El Camino Real, the trail forged by the Franciscan missionaries so long ago. Little Crow sought to camp at the missions where he thought tamed Indians still lived and worked.  However, since secularization of the missions in 1833, Indians were scattered and hungry. The missions were abandoned and in disrepair.

Maybe it was Indians who stole Anton’s horse during the night.  Little Crow had sensed eyes watching their camp through the sycamore grove.  Francisca offered Anton the reins of her horse, moving behind him on her saddle. Fearful of Indians, it comforted her to hold onto him.  Separating in Santa Barbara, Anton advised her and the boy, “Find safe haven at the mission. I’ll meet you there after I buy a new horse.”

When the two spotted the mission, they were shocked to see the grounds deserted.  Except for the church, all the buildings had become storerooms.  As night fell, they waited uneasily by their campfire for Anton.  Both jumped up cheering his entrance through the courtyard when he finally rode in on his new horse.

Continuing their journey the next day, the travelers sensed a cooler climate as they left Southern California and entered the bay of San Luis Obispo.  Fog rolled in over the rugged cliff and golden hills.  They were grateful when a Mexican family welcomed them to dinner.  As the sky relinquished a soft summer rain, they happily joined in song by their cozy fireplace.  Yet when Anton picked up the Spanish guitar, he played a melancholy melody to Francisca only, holding her gaze.

That night in the loft of the Mexicans’ barn, Anton held Francisca close to warm her, but her shivers were mere nerves.  She could not allow herself to have these feelings for him, but what if John didn’t survive smallpox?  Anton kissed her forehead goodnight and whispered,  “Don’t worry, I’m here.”

At last, they followed the mission trail to Yerba Buena, which was later named San Francisco.  Carpenters and tradesmen were scarce because everyone joined the gold rush. Consequently, Yerba Buena was a sprawling tent city with buildings half constructed.  Stores and hotels made of canvas displayed signs written in a myriad of languages.  Anton slowly led the way into this chaos.

“Hey, buckaroo!” a passing Yankee called Anton, his word for vaquero.  Francisca chuckled.  There were men of different nationalities everywhere.  In addition to the natives, they observed Englishmen in top hats, Sonorans in serapes, and Frenchmen wearing berets.  A Frenchman was able to tell them of Jacque’s whereabouts at the edge of town.  No one seemed to know John.

Filthy, unshaven men paused from fighting and gambling to stare at the trio riding up the dirt road. Anton led them quickly to the tent described as Jacque’s.  Francisca dismounted and called to him.  She heard his faint voice respond in surprise, “Belle?  Come in!”

Jacques lay covered on a cot looking emaciated and said bluntly, “You shouldn’t have come.  John’s at the gold mine and I’m dieing,” he confessed.

“How could he leave you like this?” Francisca stuttered.  “Oh dear, I misread the letter from Captain McGreer.  I could only make out a J – I thought John – thank God, he’s not ill – but you! Oh, Jacques…” she rambled and rushed to pour him some water.

“Belle, you never make any sense when you lose John,” he teased. “I am so sorry.”

“Don’t be.  I’m here now.  I’ll take care of you.”  How could gold, nothing more than a shiny metal, change the California landscape and the lives of so many people in such a short time?  For the moment she despised gold.

Anton and Little Crow camped on the outskirts of town while Francisca watched helplessly as Jacques grew weaker overnight.  By morning his breath had become irregular, but he was still alert.  She put a cold rag to his forehead.  He struggled to draw a map, explaining that they had claim to a gold producing portion of land up the American River, where John was now at work protecting it.

Jacques pressed a pouch of gold in her hands. “Belle, we are rich,” he whispered.  Looking upon her beautiful face full of sorrow, he smiled faintly and passed away.

Anton was waiting outside the tent when she came out sobbing.  He pulled her into his arms. They couldn’t seem to let go of one another, as if they were clinging to life themselves, but when she showed him the map to John he dejectedly withdrew.

“I’ll hire someone to bury Jacques and will send the boy to accompany you up the river to your husband,” he instructed. Slowly releasing her hands, he turned away into the busy street.

“Anton,” Francisca pleaded,  “Don’t leave me alone,” but he was already gone – lost into the crowd.  She strained to see a wisp of his ponytail as it swayed out of sight.

“Buckaroo!” she heard in the distance and relented a little smile. B

Photography Honorable Mention: “Elevator” by Kevin Nix

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