BRUCE SEVERY

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TIBURCIO VASQUEZ’ LIFE OF CRIME

Although the two of us find ourselves far apart

Always my heart beats for you.

To Miss E.G., Tiburcio Vasquez, awaiting

execution, San Jose, CA, 1875.

Pronto!

Tiburcio Vasquez to the hangman, March 20, 1875.

Sir, Weeks committed that murder up in Peach Tree Valley

Monterey County, 1869

And he told me he joined up with Vasquez

The year after that, robbing stage lines

But it wasn’t until the summer of ‘73

I hooked up with them

Weeks and me went back a-ways in the cavalry

Which we both deserted, more than once

But you already know that end of the story

So I’ll just skip ahead to my part of it

There was six of us, plus Vasquez

Rode into Firebaugh’s Ferry late at night

Snuck from place to place, real quiet

Until we got everyone tied up, maybe a dozen of them

With plenty of time left to locate even the smallest items

That they always try to hide

The stage was late that morning

You see, the cattle-man Miller

Was sending a payroll of thirty thousand in gold

We got the jump on them just as easy

When they did pull in

But there wasn’t any payroll aboard

And no one seemed to know

Anything about it either

Weeks and me figured Vasquez

Would hurt a few of them for it

But all he did was laugh—a good joke, he said

Then a lady come up

And asked him for her husband’s watch

That we had took

Vasquez bowed and gave it back to her

Then she invited him to go with her

And get another in exchange

They had to search a while, you understand

But finally he returned and we left that town behind us

A few miles later Poncho asked him

Did he get good value for the watch

Oh yes, my friend, she has much value in her!

Me and Weeks held our faces empty

Until the others was laughing hard

Then we joined in, as Weeks had warned me in private

Vasquez was capable of anything

Though the worst I ever saw

Was he ordered us all over creation

On raids and errands

While he held back at camp

To watch over the women

Oh yes, wives and girlfriends went with us

Didn’t you know?

Vasquez was the only bachelor

Well, he said he allowed me and Weeks

On account of our military experience

Which we lied about anyway

But he did send some of them home, loners mostly

There was so many stories about Vasquez

And he loved to tell them to us

How he ran with survivors of the Murietta Gang

And shot an American constable

At a dance in Monterey, northern California, his hometown

Or how he stood next to the man who did

The details changed as often as the telling

Vasquez had twenty years of adventures

Up and down the San Joaquin Valley

In and out of San Quentin prison, but not for long

Rustling horses and young ladies

Right under their fathers’ noses

There was a sharp scar on his arm

Which he offered everyone as proof

He fought a duel

Or was winged by an angry posse in hot pursuit

Chiquito Tedra told me in secret though

A Mexican rancher shot Vasquez

In the act of deflowering his daughter

I guess it bothered Weeks more than me

Whether any of it’s true

Vasquez can tell a lively story

About as good as any newspaper-man

What does it matter, long as it keeps you listening?

There is one story I wonder about, though

Involving the young wife of a man named Salazar—

Vasquez either carried her off

Or she ran away with him

Either way, it came to nothing

Only Vasquez supposedly ran into the husband later

In San Juan Bautista

Where the two of them stood toe to toe

And emptied their six-guns at each other

Vasquez was wounded slightly in the neck

And later charged with attempt to murder

He said his gun misfired

Or he would’ve killed him otherwise

Vasquez told it that same way, time after time

Made me think he really meant it

At the end of that story

He liked to jump over to the dance at Hollister

Where Vasquez traded clothes with one of his sweethearts

Pulled a scarf across his goatee

Then pranced right by a group of lawmen

On their way to arrest him

He drew whistles and some offers, not gunfire

We’d hoot and holler until Vasquez got up

To circle the camp-fire like a dance-hall girl

You can bet all the tequila was gone by then

And we was rolling in the redberries and buckbrush

Oh Tiburcio, he’d sigh

You and only you can catch me!

So, where was I?

Hold on now—you ask me

To put every-little-thing in my confession here

You got to give me the time

To get it all straight in my mind

Then last year come summer

Vasquez decided on a really big raid

This time, Tres Pinos in the San Benito Valley

Same way you get to Hollister, up the San Joaquin

No payroll this time, but a hotel with a safe

And other establishments that also trade in cash

Vasquez recruited Abdon Levia

A friend of his had a little ranch near Monterey

He’d been telling him stories for years

Of easy money if you just knew where it was

And could handle yourself with a gun, of course

Vasquez finally talked him into joining us

And insisted he bring his wife Rosaria along

So she could be protected

Levia sold out soon enough and there they came

In a broken-down old buckboard

Looking for our camp

Concealed not far from Three-Pine town

Vasquez sent Levia and another man

To scout the place, and after that

They were sitting down with a bottle

At Snyder’s General Store

When Teodoro Moreno got there

Busting through the front door, as he preferred

With a blanket draped loose around his face

But he got tangled with it, tripped and fell

Then all three of them desperadoes pulled their persuasion

On the astonished patrons and tied them to their chairs

I think it was Romulo Gonzales with Levia

But I might be wrong on that

Anyways, the main bunch of us rode in

Oh wait—Weeks stayed back at camp, sick

But we had more than enough men

Moreno came running just as a borax wagon

Turned out of a side street

The teamster saw us getting out our firearms

And took off on foot

Several of the boys fired at him

Vasquez shot at him with his brand-new Henry rifle

And the man went over a fence

I never saw him after that

I didn’t know he was killed, or who actually done it

There was another man, Moreno did shoot him

He wouldn’t stop for nothing, we was all yelling at him

You say he was a Portugee?

I think he ran some sheep thereabouts

Some of us chased the hotel butcher

Over to the stables where he disappeared

We figured he was hiding in the loft

And had us some fun sticking pitch-forks

Up into the hay, but no mister butcher

We had to leave the barn, to the sound of gunfire

There was a bunch lined up on Main Street

Blasting away at the hotel’s front door

Vasquez stood to one side watching

I swear I didn’t see him fire a shot

But he did shout at them to stop—

Most of the door was shot away by then

And the owner, was that Davidson?

He laid there on the floor

About as dead as any man can get

A woman on her knees bent over him

Trying to sop up the blood with an apron

But like I said, it didn’t matter by then

We emptied out the hotel safe

And Synder’s safe as well

After his wife promised everything they had

For us not to hurt them

I wish I had the time, senora

Vasquez said through that smile of his

But for now, we will take your money

We also took the borax wagon with its team of mules

And piled it high with loot

Watches, coins, suits of clothes

Stacked saddles on the extra horses

And brought them along too

For the growing herd Vasquez kept

Along the narrow valley of West Chilao

Fresh mounts when we needed them

On our way north or south

Plenty left to re-brand and sell to the army

Whoa now, it wasn’t my operation, boys

Anyway, we headed south to Elizabeth Lake

Played hidey-seek with a number of posses

Who finally had a big battle against each other

Down by the reservoir dam

Though we were safely hidden

Up in the rocks overlooking Horse Flats by then

Vasquez took to sending one or two of us

Away on sundry expeditions, he called them—

For supplies of course and scouting around

To see if any lawmen had been in the vicinity

He usually sent me to find his spies

So I could leave messages with them, bring their answers back

Without writing anything down on paper

He sent Levia farther than anyone, often overnight

While he himself guarded Rosaria closer than ever

There wasn’t anyone of us

Who got too close to their little shack

Not that you’d have to, to appreciate

The, ah, devotion they had for each other

Was Rosaria pregnant by then?

If she wasn’t, she was the only one

Me and Weeks would watch the ladies stroll

With their bellies sticking out like calving season

You’d think, once in a while

We could have a little consideration, maybe

Wouldn’t hurt none, would it?

But nothing doing—all any of them wanted was Vasquez

They’d go over there, stop and listen for a while

Then leave bouquets of red and yellow poppies or holly

There was a willow woods nearby

With a gushing spring

Sometimes you could catch a few trout over there

Well, one morning Levia came back early

He had to know what was going on

Because he galloped right to the door

Gun in hand, and demanded they come out

When he got no answer

He started shooting through the wall

Before the door finally flew open

And Vasquez appeared

In a state of, how should I say it

Flagrant fornication?

I didn’t know whether to duck

Or stay and feast my eyes upon Rosaria

Who now stood beside Vasquez

She was the most beautiful woman I ever seen

And the only one I ever seen in daylight, completely naked!

Then Clovaro Chavez came yelling something

Cocking his revolver as he ran

So I dove under a ragged manzanita, alas

But nothing came of it

Vasquez apologized, in that foreign way of his

The guns were put away

And Rosaria made them eggs, tortillas, and coffee

Then departed with her husband

Who left her at a friend’s ranch

On his way to Los Angeles

Vowing to help the sheriff there destroy Vasquez!

Or at least that’s what Weeks says he heard him say

Of course, Vasquez went after Rosaria a few hours later

And returned before sundown with her

He stuck by her most of her pregnancy too

Until she got sick with pneumonia

And couldn’t ride hard enough to out-run a posse

That’s when he left her by the side of the road

In a long patch of creosote brush

It was not much later

About ten of us rode north

Past the estancia at Castaic

To rob the town of Kingston

I believe that’s in Fresno County

We went in quiet like we learned, after dark

They never seem to expect it

We tied up about thirty of the good citizens there

And plundered every house

Of strong-boxes, valuables, wallets

Nearly three thousand in cash

But there was also a hero or two

Takes a pistol-whipping to cure you of that

Not that I hit anyone—

Chavez was good at it, though

Hit them hard enough to dent their skull

But not so hard to leave any lasting damage

Practice does make perfect

Then all of a sudden somebody ran across the street

Screaming like a banshee wind

And before we knew it

Two of the fine merchants there

Was coming for us with hunting rifles

Sweet Jesus, what was this anyway?

Chavez was hit, then another man

And we had to high-tail it out of there

I cannot understand, I tell you

What gets into people these days

I had cleared the city limits and then some

When my mare lost half her tail

Maybe a Sharps, from the sound of it

Oh, Sheriff Morse and his deputies chased us a while

Like he done in the past

Vasquez was so worried over that

He decided to take over Coyote Holes by force

The old way station halfway from Los Angeles to Owens Valley?

We fired a few rounds over the roof

And Vasquez ordered everyone out

Else he would set the place a-fire

We jumped the stage when it pulled in

And did okay with the jewelry and folding money

But the Wells Fargo box

Held little more than worthless mining stocks

We did take the horses, though

And eventually got more for them

Than all the rest of it together

Vasquez led us along Placerita Creek

Where gold was discovered years back

Among the roots of wild onions growing there

Then through Soledad Canyon into the San Fernando Valley

And on through there to visit George the Greek

Who had a little cabin on the Rancho La Brea

Just adobe and unplaned boards

I’d been there a few times before

It always smelled like oil in those parts

But no sooner did we dismount

When Weeks took me off to the side

And said he had a bad feeling in his gut

That was getting worse

Too close to the big city, he explained

Well, my bowels was fine but I worried over Weeks

So we shook hands with Vasquez and said our good-byes

I rode north again with Weeks

Climbing back into the chaparral

But he wore me out with all his talk

Vasquez this and that, all the enemies he made

How they’d pay him back one of these days

I think what really rubbed him wrong

Was how Vasquez divvied up the loot

That, and the women—Weeks got so backed up in his plumbing

He offered his whole share of a stage-coach job

To a homely-looking girl

Vasquez had already told to leave

When Weeks approached her with his offer

She broke wind of a very foul stench

And hopped off like a three-legged burro

I pointed out to him

That Vasquez gave away half the cash he took

And nearly all the jewelry

I once saw him hand over twenty watches

In a little cantina

And none of them could even tell the time, Weeks replied

A gold watch is the mark of a gentleman

I explained to him as patient as I could

Tiburcio himself can read and write
And he talks two different languages

Oh, it’s Tiburcio now, is it?

Weeks wouldn’t allow for it

But Vasquez did help more folks than he hurt

And I don’t believe he ever killed no one either

No matter how they write about it in the newspapers

They made Vasquez sound like a monster

Kidnapping a sick child for ransom

When all he did was tell stories to the boy

While his father sent a check to the bank in town for cash

Vasquez left them each a set of spurs

With his own initials TV beside the notches

And gave the courier a soft buckskin pouch as well

And how many of the women

They say he abducted and forced himself upon

Were just walking along the road

Hoping a romantic fellow would come along

And carry them away from cooking and cleaning up

Plus a new baby to care for every year?

Of course, I over-stated the case

But riding with Weeks was aggravating my piles

So I finally told him to go on

I’d catch up in a day or two

But as soon as I saw him disappear

I headed back to the Holly Hills, east of La Brea

And there I found Vasquez all settled in

With the Greek and his woman, a girl actually

Vasquez referred to her as the Greek’s missus

But she was more the age of his daughter

Only she wouldn’t be

I set my bedroll out among the others

In a field of mustard greens and jimson weed

Nice enough that time of year

Twice a day, the girl brought us corn fritters and beans

She had that shine in her eye, same as Vasquez

And she was a pretty thing of course

Vasquez collected board money from us

Every evening on his way to supper

Then curtains fell across the windows

And we were left to lie back with the bugs

Count stars above us, and imagine …

Vasquez assured us he was working on a plan

Something new, a big job, he said, for many bandidos

Him and the Greek would nod their heads

Then he’d send us out to wander

And hand out his little gifts

To most anyone we come across who’d accept one

I’d go a day’s ride someplace or other

And take an old sack of stuff along, just in case

Everyday pocket-watches, spectacles for reading

A bag of chia seeds—them old Injins like that

I came to enjoy those long rides

And usually made them on my own, without complaint

I always tried to pick a route by Castle Rock

On the north end of San Fernando

Where the pass goes through the Santa Susanas

West into Windy Valley

You can sit up there and see

Nearly all the world, coming and going, or any posse

Maybe get a whiff of the salty Pacific

When the breeze blows hard enough

I imagine Heaven must be like that—

You can’t do or change anything, just watch for ever and ever

Life suited me then

I stopped worrying over what to do next

Though some of the others saddled up and left, didn’t come back

Some promised to return, and with their girlfriends too

One excitable young man actually did

Minus his fiancée

Who had up and married another fella

He handed Vasquez a sack of horehound drops

Originally purchased for the lady in question

Vasquez bowed then sent him on

To have his remaining teeth extracted

As they were the worst for wear

Any of us had seen in years

It was mid-May

I was on my way back

From a longer trip to Soledad

And the canyons beyond

Delivering confidential messages

From Vasquez to some of his spies up there

I loved the foxtails and sweet white clover

Along that road, reminded me of back home

When a dense fog rose up

Forcing me to inch along beside the horse

Until I gained the little rise

Where guards were usually posted

Along a row of desert yuccas

I stared hard into the dripping mist

Couldn’t see or hear nothing

And there they were, two sentries, passed out drunk

An empty bottle between them in the dirt

I needed to relieve myself in a terrible way

So I did, spattering back and forth, one to the other

But it didn’t stir them

Suddenly though, the fog lifted!

And what I saw below me

Was like a wild west show set to unfold

There was both of Vasquez’ fast grays out back

Plus a pair of old mules

No sooner had I taken this in

When two Mexicans went around

And harnessed the mules to their high-sided firewood wagon

I watched as they drove to the road

Directly toward the hidden posse

Who finally jumped up with guns drawn

Nothing I could do but watch

As six heavily-armed deputies

Climbed in the back of the wagon

And held shotguns to the heads of the Mexicans

While they turned the wagon around and headed back

I could’ve fired warning shots, I suppose

But there was a half-dozen more men

Fanned out around the cabin

And several more hiking up the hill in my direction

I doubt they spotted me

But how much time did I have to think it over, anyway?

Deputies jumped from the wagon

Before it fully stopped

And ran to cover the door and windows

One of them, I think it was Constable Bryant

Laid into the front door with an ax

And pieces of it went everywhere

Then the woman ran out and commenced

To fighting with Emil Harris, the deputy sheriff

Who smacked her aside with his rifle

And fired several times inside

I heard Vasquez screaming

All the way to where I crouched

Then someone else fired

And Vasquez burst through a side window

Rolled on the ground and took off fast

The gunfire really broke out then

Vasquez was knocked around like a rug on a clothesline

But he kept going

Until the police chief, Hartley

Jumped up from hiding and let fly

With both barrels of his 12-gauge

And Vasquez stayed down

The woman sat in the yard wailing

While someone held a towel

To the side of her head

With Vasquez gone and her like that

Not much I could do but back myself out of there

I’ve re-arranged it so many times since then

But Vasquez was trapped, no matter

The posse was waiting before I got there

They would’ve shot me to pieces, too

If I even showed myself

So I rode north, hoping to meet up with Weeks again

But found out that he turned himself in

Made a deal

Five years at Alcatraz for desertion

Nothing mentioned of the rest

I have to tell you, gents

I never thought Vasquez

Would get up out of that wagon

After you hauled him back to Los Angeles

Never—all the places he was hit

None even close to fatal?

I guess now I have seen everything

Then I read the stories in the papers

One after another

Vasquez taken to Hollister for trial

Then San Jose

Abdon Levia takes the stand

He witnessed this, swears to that

And all those other witnesses—

Where did they find these men?

I don’t know any of them

I was standing next to Vasquez most of those times

But I didn’t see what they said they’d never forget

Even when they run Vasquez out of the Greek’s

He had guns in the cabin but not in his hands

There was a dozen men shooting at him

And all he did was scoot

Oh, he stood up in court

When he wasn’t supposed to

And said, Caramba!

So any day now he’s going to hang

To pay for his life of crime

I read how the ladies crowd around the jail

Where he sits in his cell all day

Signing little photographs for them

And composing bits of verse

All right, end of story, I’m finished

Why am I here?

I want a deal too, same as Weeks

I’m turning myself in for desertion

I swear, if my name is not Bill Day

That I have told you the whole story

Of my association with Tiburcio Vasquez

And I have told you the truth

In every last part of it

What you do with what I’ve said

It’s up to you

If you call me into court, I’ll testify

If not, I won’t complain

I did partake of his hospitality

And provided small services in return

Delivering messages and such—I told you about that

But I never fired my gun at anyone, ever

I kept no loot, gave it all away like he told me

So you got your outlaw, Tiburcio Vasquez

Though as far as I’m concerned

He was nothing more than

A perfect gentleman and pretty good dancer

But send me off to Alcatraz Island

That’s where we belong, people like me and Weeks

Just deserters.