USA > California > Monterey County > History and biographical record of Monterey and San Benito Counties : and history of the State of California : containing biographies of well-known citizens of the past and present. Volume I > Part 44
USA > California > San Benito County > History and biographical record of Monterey and San Benito Counties : and history of the State of California : containing biographies of well-known citizens of the past and present. Volume I > Part 44
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Their Soledad retreat was a small valley in the hills that cannot be entered except through two very narrow passages, while their Jolon ren- dezvous was a mountain cave, inaccessible ex- cept through a narrow defile. In July, 1853, the band was broken up by the killing of Joaquin and Three-Fingered Jack, and, although there was considerable excitement when the people learned the news, the better class rejoiced, for they had long been a terror to the community.
In September, 1852, a native of Sonora, while traveling along the road from Monterey to the Salinas, was attacked by robbers and his horse- and money stolen. Returning as soon as possible. to Monterey, he obtained another riding animal, and proceeding to Natividad informed the jus- tice of the peace, Henry Cocks, of the robbery. Cocks immediately organized a company of eiglit men, and they rode to a house of bad reput- tation on the Salinas. Reaching the place soon after dark, the barking dogs alarmed the in- mates. and immediately all the lights were ex- tinguished and the robbers began shooting. The Cocks party returned the fire and the inmates fled in every direction. The firing continued and three of the robbers were killed and one escaped badly wounded. Later he was captured and im- prisoned for ten years. The outlaws belonged to- a band of horse and cattle thieves that had ren- dezvoused in the Gabilan mountains, and a num- ber of the horses recovered belonged to the- ranchers of the valley. Another band of horse thieves, eleven in number, were attacked near San Juan by a party of Americans from San Jose ; six of the desperadoes were killed during the fight which took place, and the remainder- were captured and locked up in the San Jose- jail
The record of the vigilance committees of Monterey was outrageous, for they hung crimi- nals or presumed criminals without even a mock trial, and too often the officers of the law were. very casily overpowered, especially if the vic- tim was a Mexican, for the pioneers had no love for the descendants of the Aztecs.
The "vigilantes" first took the law into their- own hands August 10, 1850, and hung a hard character named William Otis Hall, who had been tried and convicted of grand larceny by a jury of twelve men in the court of sessions the pre- vious day. Sheriff William Roach thus laconical- ly reported the affair: "Between one and two. o'clock this morning a party of unknown armed men broke into prison and gagged the jailer, then· proceeded to the cell of Hall by force of arms and there produced death upon the prisoner by strangulation." In the same year nine prisoners escaped from this jail that Colton built, and the.
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vigilance committee resolved to let no more guilty men escape, and in less than two years, 1854-56, broke into jail and hanged at different dates four prisoners from the rafters.
The story of Anastacio Garcia is but one of the hundred desperadoes of that day. His first crime was committed in 1854, in that year kill- ing Constable Harmont as the latter was about to arrest him for disorderly conduct. In the following year he was in a Monterey fandango creating a disturbance, and as Constable Isaac Wall was about to arrest him, drew a revolver and killed Wall instantly. Immediately jumping upon his horse, he fled towards the Salinas, ac- companied by a "compenare." He was imme- diately followed by a sheriff's posse of ten men and overtaken on the Salinas plains. In the running fight which took place three of the sheriff's party were badly wounded, and Joaquin de la Torre and Charles Layton, the light-house keeper, were killed. Garcia escaped, but later was captured in Los Angeles county and lodged in the Monterey jail. The citizens, fearing that he might escape or his friends rescue him, con- cluded to forestall the law by hanging the des- perado. Assembling in a body on the morning of February 24, 1857, they marched to the jail, and, surrounding it with a guard heavily armed, they broke into the "lockup" and bound the sheriff hand and foot. Then, breaking into Garcia's cell. hanged him to one of the rafters, weighting his body with a heavy log chain.
In the following year, 1858, the deputy sheriff, A. W. Poole, "beat out" the vigilance committee by illegally hanging a prisoner. At that time an Indian named Jose Anastasius was under sen- tence of death for the murder of a Mexican, he having been sentenced by Judge Rumsey to be executed February 12, 1858. In the meantime the Indian's lawyer had obtained a respite from Governor Weller upon two points, viz., that the sheriff had not complied with the law and sent a transcript of conviction and judgment to the gov- ernor, and second that there was a question re- garding the guilt of the condemned. The stay -of execution was received by the sheriff on the morning of the hanging, but the citizens not un- derstanding the cause of the delay, believed that
Jose had been pardoned, and they began making preparations to hang him in accordance with the law of "Judge Lynch." The deputy sheriff, how- ever, was very accommodating, and he hanged the criminal, as he declared, "in order to prevent the people from taking the law into their own hands, if I had not hung him in all probability the citi- zens would." Governor Weller hearing of the deputy's actions gave him a very severe scoring, he declaring in his letter, "You had no more authority to execute that man than you have to shoot your neighbor without provocation. You are a disgrace to the community in which you live." This case was a subject of legislative in- vestigation ; there the matter ended.
In the criminal annals of California I know of no more pitiful or abhorrent event than the hang- ing of Michael Tarpey on the afternoon of March 17, 1873. by a vigilance committee, pitiful and most outrageous because the wife and mother of Tarpey were present at the jail pleading for his life, but their tears of deep distress found no sympathizer in that brutal mob.
"Matt" Tarpey, it seems who was one of the oldest residents of Monterey, sold a piece of land to one Nicholson, and after the sale Tarpey went upon the land and cut from it cord wood which he sold. This caused trouble between the two men, and Tarpey, nursing his anger, went to the ranch March 14th for the purpose, it was be- lieved, of killing Nicholson. His intended victim was absent, but meeting Mrs. Nicholson, either accidentally or purposely, he killed her, seven large buckshot entering her body, one piercing her heart. She was a woman highly respected and her funeral, two days later, at Watsonville, was attended by carriages and horsemen, over a mile in length.
The citizens were under an intense state of anger and passing resolutions at Watsonville on the evening of March 15th, condemning the mur- derer, on the following day a large number of citizens began assembling at Monterey. In the meantime Tarpey had been arrested and lodged in the Monterey jail and the purpose of this large assemblage of people was easily anticipated. The sheriff took no extra precautions whatever to protect his prisoner, in fact he was their accom-
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plice, for late in the afternoon of March 17th, the vigilantes seized the sheriff upon the street and binding him with ropes, left him under a small guard.
The citizens then hurrying to the prison began breaking in the wooden doors with a sledge ham- mer, the exact time 4:30 o'clock, as telegraphed to all parts of the state. Three or four of them then entering the jail, they broke down the iron door leading to Tarpey's cell and binding him with ropes they brought him out and placed him upon a wagon. As they brought Tarpey from the jail, the wife and mother stood at the door and with the tears streaming from their eyes, pleaded with the mob not to hurt Tarpey.
Leaving the jail, Tarpey, under an escort of about three hundred heavily armed men in bug- gies and on horseback, was taken to an oak tree a short distance beyond the present Del Monte grounds. The doomed man was then seated upon a box on the wagon, informed that his time had come, and if he wished, he could make his last speech. Tarpey, who had himself taken part in many early executions, for nearly thirty minutes begged for his life. At the end of that time they placed a new unstretched rope around his neck, one end fastened to the limb overhead, and driv- ing the wagon from under him, he was slowly strangled to death, his knees touching the earth because of the stretching of the rope. Leaving the body hanging the party returned to Monterey. Later Coroner Pardee went after the body and conveying it to the town gave it to his wife. An inquest was held, but no arrests were made and thus ended an illegal execution that is today well remembered.
The year 1874 was a record-breaker for mur- ders, four taking place inside of three months. The first was the killing of John Wilson, Feb- ruary 23rd, in New Republic. Wilson, who was a worthless, quarrelsome fellow, was abusing an old man named Connelly in front of Sam Irvine's store, and Irvine, who was standing by with a small pocket knife in his hand, said, "Wilson, Connolly is a quiet, peaceful man, you ought not to abuse him": Wilson then turned and began cursing Irvine, and the latter pushed Wilson off the sidewalk, exclaiming, "You shall not abuse me
that way." Both men were now very angry and Wilson drawing a revolver threatened to shoot. Irvine then forced Wilson back on the ground with the remark, "I can kill you." Irvine then permitted his opponent to arise, he promising to behave himself, but the moment he was free he fired, the ball grazing Irvine's temple. Again he fired, the ball cutting Irvine's arm. Irvine then picked up his pocket knife, which had fallen in the scuffle, and cutting Wilson several times, finally disembowelled him, the wounds proving fatal.
A few weeks later an "April fool" joke led to a very foolish tragedy, and Mrs. Dennison be- came a widow. She and her husband were re- siding at the Diamond hotel, then one of the leading hotels of Salinas. Some of the young ladies of the hotel thinking it would be a good joke sent an unmarried man named Downey to Mrs. Dennison's room with a letter bearing these words, "April fool." Dennison, who was of a very jealous nature, unfortunately saw Downey coming from his wife's room and without asking any explanation of either party, accused his wife of infidelity. She immediately resented the cruel insinuation and matters continued growing worse until they began talking of a divorce. Dennison angry at his wife, bitterly hated Downey, who, he declared, had caused him all this trouble. On the day of the tragedy, April 6, Dennison said to Mrs. Warren, his mother-in-law, "One of us must die before the day is over." Meeting Downey soon afterward in front of Conley's saloon, he called him into the back yard to speak to him and immediately Dennison exclaimed: "You are the that caused me my trouble." Downey then struck his assailant, knocking him down, and Dennison arising drew his revolver. As Downey grappled with his intended murderer the pistol was discharged, the ball striking Downey in the left side and coming out near the spine. Downey then wrested the weapon from Den- nison, who fled, running through tlie saloon and down the street followed by Downey. In front of Winnow's chop-house Dennison stumbled and fell. At the same time Downey fired and the ball struck Dennison in the left temple, causing a mortal wound. He was carried into the chop-
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house and a surgeon was immediately called. After examining the wound, he said, "I can do nothing for him, let him die in peace." Den- nison was then carried to the coroner's office and soon expired. His wife was present and deep was her sorrow. Downey, badly wounded, was arrested by the sheriff and taken to his room in the hotel, and coolly smoking his cigar, said, "If this wound is fatal I want you all to know that he shot me first."
A rather peculiar murder was that of two land-jumpers, John McArdle and John C. Rior- don, September 24, 1887, Newton Azbell being accused of the murder. It seems that the two men squatted upon a piece of property in Indian Valley, taken up by Azbell as a homestead ; they claimed that he had perjured himself by proving upon the land without living upon it. The men were camped near the home of Samuel Ferguson. Between daylight and sunrise his wife heard two shots near the camp; believing there was some- thing wrong she went to the camp and repeatedly called, but there was no response. Her husband then went to the camp to investigate and found both men dead in bed, one shot through the fore- head, and the other through the breast. Azbell, arrested for the crime, plead self defense. He claimed that in looking for a horse he passed by the two men who were sitting on their wagon and as he approached, Riordon exclaimed "There is the - - - , let's fix him," he at the same time picking up a pistol and McArdle a gun. Azbell then fired, killing both men. The prosecu- tion in two trials, the first in January and the second in September, 1888, failed to prove their case and the jury, after twenty-four hours de- liberation, were dismissed, they standing six for murder in the first degree, three for man- slaughter and three for acquittal.
Perhaps the most exciting trial of the county was that of the People vs. E. T. M. Simmons, late manager of the Del Monte hotel, he being accused of setting it on fire about II o'clock on the night of April 1, 1887. His eastern record was not of the best and as his actions just before and during the fire were very suspicious (he hav- ing been discharged as manager) he was arrested April 22 at San Jose and placed in jail. Five
days later his preliminary examination took place before Justice Westfall of Monterey and he was bound over to appear before Judge J. K. Alex- ander of the superior court sitting in Salinas.
The trial which took place in the old court house on Main street was very sensational, as the Pacific Improvement Company, anticipating many damage suits from their guests unless they proved that the hotel was set on fire, tried by every means possible to convict Simmons. The prosecuting attorney was assisted by Harry G. Brown and Harry V. Moorehouse of Salinas, two of the railroad's best attorneys, while D. M. Delmas represented the defendant. The trial cost the county considerable money, for the prosecu- tion put on the stand one hundred and fifty wit- nesses, employes of the railroad, all of them anxious to hold their jobs, yet so conflicting and inconsistent was their testimony on the fourth day, that Harry Brown, the leading counsel for the Improvement Company, suddenly exclaimed, "We rest." Delmas, without even consulting his client, immediately exclaimed, "We rest also your Honor, and further we submit the case without argument." "We don't," replied Brown. In a speech of one and one-half hours Brown argued the case, followed by Delmas, who easily proved the inconsistency of all of the prosecution's testi- mony. Harry Moorehouse closed for the People and the jury returned into the court in seven min- utes with a verdict of not guilty. Later Simmons sued the company for $100,000 damages, but his get-rich-quick scheme was not a success.
The first and only legal execution in Monterey county took place on December 10, 1884. The unfortunate criminals were two young Mexicans, Solomon Torres about twenty, and Juan Soto about twenty-three years of age. The two young fellows, traveling on foot from Monterey to Salinas on the evening of December 10, 1883, stopped at the cabin of three Chinamen who were chopping wood six miles from Salinas on the Tularcitos rancho. It was just dusk and as the Chinamen were getting their evening meal the fellows asked for some supper. The Chinamen gave them the best they had, but the intruders demanded meat. Ah Chung replied, "No gotee meat." They still insisted on having meat and
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as it was not forthcoming they drew revolvers and began a promiscuous shooting, with the Chinamen as targets. Ah Din was instantly killed, shot in the head, and Ah Chung was shot in the shoulder. Mon Son making his escape ran to Mr. Davis' house and told the story of the murder, followed soon afterward by Ah Chung, who told the same story. Mr. Davis brought Ah Chung to Salinas and Sheriff J. E. Graves started out for the young criminals. He found Torres in a disreputable house. Soto was afterwards caught at Gonzales.
The two murderers were tried, convicted of the crime and several times sentenced to be hanged, but their attorney succeeded in obtaining a stay of judgment. Finally he exhausted all the tech- nicalities known to the law and Judge Alexander sentenced Torres and Soto to be executed De- cember 10, 1884. In the meantime a scaffold had been erected in the old jail on Salinas street, and at six o'clock on the day of execution the prison- ers were transferred from the new to the old jail.
The sheriff had sent out about five hundred in- vitations to county officials and about two hun- dred and fifty were present, coming from all parts of the state. The condemned men had been visited for several months by spiritual ad- visers, Father Sorrenti giving religious consola- tion to Torres and Father P. Smith to Soto. At the time appointed for execution the two men were led to the gallows, preceded by the priests, each bearing a small cross, and after a prayer had been said Sheriff Dickens, of Santa Cruz, placed the rope around the neck of Torres, Deputy Sheriff Bennett, of Santa Clara, performing a like service for Soto. Before the trap was
sprung Soto fainted and was pushed from the platform; he strangled to death. Torres' neck was broken and he died instantly. This was the last execution in the county, as a few years later the legislature passed a law providing that all executions thereafter should take place in the state's prison.
The following account of the depredations of Tiburcio Vasquez, one of California's most noted bandits, is related by Jacob R. Leese :
I knew Tiburcio Vasquez; everybody knew
him, especially the women and children. He never robbed a woman and was always very good to little children, but for all that he was a mighty bad man. It was during the time of the vigi- lantes that he commenced perpetrating the crimes that brought his name into disfavor. He was born in Monterey county, California, in 1835, of Mexican parents, both of whom were descendants of good families. His father and mother were plain, honest people, with a family of four sons and one daughter, all of whom turned out well with the exception of Tiburcio. A bright boy naturally, when he was sixteen years old he thought he had learned enough at the common schools of the times and set out in life for him- self. He did not like to work-not a bit-so he set up a dance house, which was his ruin. The class of women who went to these fandangos were half-breeds, who held a fascinating power peculiar to these cross-breed beauties of human brutes just bordering on civilization. It was plain to be seen what the future held for Vas- quez ; running such a house and associating with no other class of people, it stands to reason trouble had to follow.
Vasquez' boon companion, many years his senior, was Anastacia Garcia, a robber that was striking terror to Monterey county, and, indeed. to the whole state of California. Tiburcio took him for a leader. He was a regular visitor at Tiburcio's dance house, and between this evil genius and Tiburcio grew a love that snapped only in death. His first crime occurred one even- ing in 1852. The fandango of the season was at its height ; wine and dancing, cutting and slash- ing were the order of the evening, and Mexican -blood flew. High in jealousy and fight, Garcia came in and was soon engaged in a general quar- rel with one Jose Iguera, his rival for the hand of a buxom dusky beauty. Vasquez took a hand to help Garcia, and when the mix-up was at its height Hardimont, the constable, put in an ap- pearance, and in trying to quiet things was killed. The dance broke up, and Garcia, Iguera and Vasquez, between whom the murder lay, fled. Iguera was caught by the vigilantes the next morning and hanged. Garcia got away, but later was caught in Los Angeles, brought to
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Monterey, and was hung in jail by the vigi- lantes. Vasquez was hidden by friends until everything quieted down.
Tiburcio Vasquez' life began with this bloody date; his fandango house was shut up. Dead broke, a hunted dog by the law, and with the hatred of the Mexican for the gringo planted in his heart, what could one expect but that this hot-headed boy should go from bad to worse? Soon after this he got in with a desperate cattle thief and spread terror as a leader from the first. For five years they plied their trade, but after the vigilantes got on their track only one or two escaped the grapevine dance. Vasquez got away, boldly formed another company, of which he was made leader, and for several years thereafter stock was not safe in Santa Clara, Monterey, Merced, Fresno and Tulare counties. Until 1857 he kept this state in a constant fever of excite- ment, but finally he was caught stealing horses and was sent up for five years. Again he escaped, but was caught and returned and served until 1863. His confinement produced no good effect. After his release he began gambling, locating at New Almaden and Emigrant mines. For three years he lived the life of a "sport," as he used to say, but Nature's call of the wild got the better of a gentler voice that at times curbed the restless spirit, and early one morning in 1864 the Italian butcher at the Emigrant mine was found dead, shot to death. Vasquez was select- ed at the inquest as the Spanish interpreter. The miners were all Mexicans and Vasquez was the only one who could speak English. The testi- mony given in by Vasquez, taken from the wit- nesses on the stand, threw no light on the mur- der, so nobody was arrested. Vasquez suddenly left the diggings and did not come back. It
turned out afterward that Vasquez translated the testimony which was damaging to himself to suit his purpose, he and another fellow having done the robbing and killing. It was not long after this before Sonoma, Contra Costa and Mendo- cino counties were terrorized; a person never knew when he lay down at night whether he would ever seen daylight again, and this state of affairs continued until the fall of 1866. It was then that Vasquez was caught in the very act
of driving off a band of fine cattle, for which he was given a term in San Quentin until 1871. He got out just in time to see two of his old pals, Juan Soto and Procopio, get into trouble. Sheriff Harry Morse, of Alameda county, was making things red hot up his way. Soto was killed and Procopio escaped to Mexico. Vas- quez decided it was not a comfortable place for him, so he retreated to Cantua Canyon, a wild and almost impassable hidden nest in the Mount Diablo range. The county had a breathing spell for three months, then hot vengeance on wheels came down on us. Vasquez, in the saddle with two pals, Francisco Bassinez and Narciso Rodri- guez, began by robbing the Visalia stage, which was driven from the road out into an old field. Thereafter robbing the eight passengers, they tied them hand and foot, laid them by the side of the stage with their faces turned to the boil- ing sun, after which the robbers rode away and left their victims. It was many hours before they were discovered and released. This unex- ampled boldness was effective in arousing the spirit of vengeance throughout the community. Getting a posse hurriedly together, we started in hot pursuit and overtook the three near Monterey county. Rodriguez was captured and got ten years in state's prison. (The writer, J. R. Leese, who was under sheriff of Monterey county at the time, took him up). Bassinez was killed and Vasquez was shot through the body, the ball striking the right breast and lodging under the left shoulder ; he survived, although he told me afterward he thought he was done for. He stood his ground, firing shot after shot, until he had killed our constable, after which he put spurs to his horse and rode sixty miles before he halted. As soon as he was able to leave his Cantua Cañon hiding place he left for Mexico. After a rest of a month he returned to San Francisco by water. Procopio had got there ahead of him; the two met and were having high jinks when Sheriff Morse, of Alameda county, captured Pro- copio and barely missed Vasquez. Like a duck to water, he took to Cantua Cañon and there gathered about him the worst band of thieves he ever had. It was formed at Cantua in Au- gust, 1873, for the purpose of plunder and mur-
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