USA > California > Los Angeles County > History of Pomona Valley, California, with biographical sketches of the leading men and women of the valley who have been identified with its growth and development from the early days to the present > Part 8
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When Phillips and Tischler rode off to Los Angeles that April morning, Tischler told Perez (to return to the foreman) that he should look to Phillips for his pay from that time on. Little did they realize how long that time would be. For over fifty years the relation continued, till the time of Mr. Phillips' death. It is said that Tischler sailed at once for San Francisco, but nothing is known of him since. If he was not killed by the enraged Mexicans, as was so persistently rumored, he doubtless suffered from constant fear of attack, and perhaps from a guilty conscience. It was this, doubtless, which drove him from the scene of his operations and from the land he had coveted, and had wrested by dubious means from its rightful owner.
In marked contrast with the easy-going, generous methods of the early Cali- fornians, mostly Mexicans, was the shrewd, money-making habit which was a native
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trait of the new owner. Sole proprietor now of the estate, Phillips began with renewed determination to make his fortune. To the flocks and herds which were his own by the first agreement with Tischler and by later purchase, were now added all of Tischler's share. Never running in debt, never wasting, never spending a cent when it could be helped, he was always on the watch for bargains in land and cattle, and was ready to pay cash whenever a Mexican wanted to sacrifice a few acres or a few head of cows for needed plata. But, honest in his transactions, and paying promptly, he did not incur the ill will of his neighbor Mexicans as Tischler had. Any day one might see him riding over the ranch alone or with José Perez, notebook in hand, taking inventory of stock, marking what was his and noting whatever needed attention. His herds increased and he added to the normal increase thousands of sheep bought from other ranchers. Then he went far, if need be, to market to best advantage his hides, wool and horses. Driving a band of horses all the way to Salt Lake City, he sold them for enough to take up his note and clear his title to the ranch. The center of life on the ranch was the cluster of buildings by the stream at the foot of the Spadra hills, where stands the "Phillips Mansion," the two-story brick house so long a landmark on the Spadra road. Just east of where this house now stands was an old adobe, which was the home of Chico Vejar (Francisco), a brother of Ramon and son of Ricardo Vejar, the original grantee. This adobe was built for Chico Vejar, according to José Perez, by three men-Juan Chino, another Mexican called Jesus, and "Nigger John," the latter one of two colored men, Nigger John and Nigger Ben, who were among the first arrivals in Monte, where they lived with their families, rais- ing vegetables and working about town. In this adobe Phillips later kept a tiendita, or small store, for the benefit especially of the people on the ranch, but where passers-by might refresh themselves from his store of wine and beer. In the bend of the hills farther east, by the Pedregoso stream, was the "casa vieja de Ricardo Vejar," the old adobe ranch house which he first built for his homestead, but abandoned later, when he had built his new house at Walnut, because the Indians were so troublesome here. And then there was another small adobe, the oldest of all, a little distance farther north. All these buildings have now disap- peared, with many others of less stable construction. The San José Creek was then a good sized stream at the junction of the Pedregoso and San José creeks, and the pond was a real pond, where the ducks and geese had ample room. The home orchard, of which a good many trees remain, was planted and enlarged with all kinds of choice fruit trees.
Mention has already been made of the close relation to this Valley of the colony at El Monte. From this colony came a number of the first families in the new settlement which grew up in 1867-1868 on the Phillips ranch at Spadra. The first of these families to move out from El Monte was that of William Rubottom, known by everyone as "Uncle Billy Rubottom," who had come, as told before, with other families from Arkansas in 1853. Early in the sixties Uncle Billy had moved to the Cucamonga Rancho and built a tavern there on the upper road from Los Angeles to San Bernardino, not far from the ranch house of Colonel Rains. It was at the suggestion of Louis Phillips that he left here and moved to the San José Rancho, buying of him one hundred acres of land. Here on the Camino Real he built another house and tavern that bore his name. Other families fol- lowed, and the place became known at first as "Rubottom's" because of the Rubot- tom House. But when a postoffice was secured it was called officially Spadra, on the petition of Uncle Billy and those who had come with him from the town of
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Spadra Bluffs in Arkansas. This was accomplished through Ben Truman of the Los Angeles Star, who was authorized to locate the station, and who rested at Rubottom's on his tour of inspection. Uncle Billy was appointed the first post- master on a salary of two dollars a month! No place on the road from Los Angeles to San Bernardino was better known than Rubottom's, and when the stage changed its route, as it soon did, from the Mud Springs road to that by way of Spadra, it became at once a busy place. The reputation of this hostelry was due no less to the energy and attraction of Uncle Billy's daughter-in-law, whom every one called "Aunt Sue," than to the genial hospitality of Uncle Billy himself. As Susan Glenn, she was one of two families, the Glenns and the Flinns, who had come to El Monte from Texas in 1860. Although a large party with 100 wagons had left Lamar County, Texas, on the overland journey to California, so great were the hardships they encountered on the way that only these two families arrived at their destination. Some time after their coming to El Monte, Susan Glenn had lived for two years with her uncle on the Cucamonga ranch, then owned by Mrs. Col. Rains, a daughter of Colonel Williams of the Chino Rancho. Here "Aunt Sue" and Jim Rubottom, Uncle Billy's son, were married.
Before the Rubottoms had finished building their hotel, another family, by the name of Fryer, also mentioned before among the early settlers at El Monte, had moved from there to Spadra. As before stated Mr. R. C. Fryer was a Baptist minister who had come from Arkansas in 1852, with the spirit of the pioneer as well as the preacher, "wanting more room," as he said. Later, in the same spirit, and regarding the new location more healthful than El Monte, he had followed the Rubottoms and had bought some 250 acres of land of Phillips, who at this time was quite ready to sell small tracts to desirable settlers who would help to build up a small village on the ranch near by. The sociability and protec- tion of these neighbors from the States were doubtless welcome to Louis Phillips, who had been surrounded hitherto only by Mexicans whose language and cus- toms he was not familiar with, and by bands of troublesome Indians. Nor was it altogether accidental that, the first of these being "a good gun man," resourceful and courageous, the second should be a minister of religion.
The event which first brought R. C. Fryer to the ranch and into close contact with Phillips was no less than the wedding of the latter to Esther Blake, which Mr. Fryer was called from El Monte to solemnize. Dates are still reckoned from the Phillips wedding. It was a memorable occasion, one which people who were present still like to talk about. And every one was there from all over the Valley. All of the best Mexican families were there, the Palomares and Vejars, the Yorbas and the Arenas. And there were the Martins and Thompsons and others from El Monte, the Burdicks from San Dimas, the Rowlands from Puente and many from Chino. The old two-story adobe overflowed with guests and good cheer. There was music and dancing and plenty to eat and drink. The wedding was but the prophecy of many other occasions when Mr. Fryer was to serve the people as minister here on the ranch; for after he had organized at Spadra the first Bap- tist church in the valley, the Phillips pond was often the scene of his baptisms, and the cemetery near by of his burials.
Yet for some time the number of Americans living here was quite small. After the Blakes came, Charles Blake, a brother of Mrs. Phillips, opened a store across the street. A large load of goods for this store was hauled from Los An- geles on the same day the Fryers moved in their household goods from El Monte. And there was another store opposite the Rubottom House, owned by Long and
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Swift, who later sold out to A. B. Caldwell. This was long the principal store. Charles Blake's clerk, George Egan, in time became his partner and then bought him out, later moving the store to Pomona.
THE OVERLAND STAGE
Even from the beginning of the village of Spadra there was much travel over the road from Los Angeles and El Monte to Chino and San Bernardino. Loads of produce of every sort were hauled to the inland town and exchanged for lumber and farm products. Teamsters, hauling machinery and provisions to the mines in Arizona and Utah, camped over night by the pond. Twenty four-mule teams were not uncommon. "swampers" riding by the "wheelers," or pushing ahead to clear the way. . But business increased and more travel came this way after the hotel was built. Especially there came the Overland Stage. Local stages and freight wagons there had been, and the Mormons had run regular caravans from Salt Lake to Los Angeles. Vehicles of many sorts passed over the road, and various beasts of burden, but all were unimportant compared with the Overland. Early settlers at Spadra recall an attempt to use camels for carrying mail from Los Angeles across the mountains and desert to Fort Mojave. Red-fezzed Turks in native costume rode the animals and added their color and quaintness to the strange picture. Children of the West, usually quite fearless, ran trembling to hide when they saw and heard these unfamiliar, ungainly creatures. But the experiment was not a success and the beasts were turned loose in the desert, where at rare intervals the traveler might encounter one.
Nothing could rival the Overland Stage. The thrilling story of the gigantic enterprise is told at length by other writers. Only the salient points in its history need be mentioned here. There were many stages owned and run by individuals and covering various stretches of road across the mountains and plains between the Pacific Coast and the Eastern States, but the great Overland Stage was known as Butterfield's, after the man who organized the enterprise and later founded the Wells Fargo Express. From San Francisco to St. Louis by Los Angeles and El Paso the distance covered by these stages was about 2,800 miles,* the longest stage line ever established and successfully operated. Lummis says of it, "The deadly deserts through which nearly half its route lay, the sand storms, the mirage, the hell of thirst, the dangerous Indian tribes, and its vast length-forty per cent. greater than that of any other stage line in our national story-made it a monu- mental undertaking." When the line was opened in 1858, tivo stages a week were run each way, but soon there was a stage every other day, and later six stages a . week each way. Changing horses every fifteen miles, more or less, according to the character of the road, and exchanging drivers at division points, with farriers and blacksmiths, and harness makers and stable boys all along the way across the country, a huge establishment had to be maintained always at a high point of efficiency. At its height seven hundred and fifty men were employed, and one thou- sand horses and five hundred big Kentucky mules were used. The prairie schooners first put on were replaced in 1860 by one hundred new Concord coaches. Before the Overland Stage was introduced the travel from the East to California had been mostly around Cape Horn or by way of the Isthmus of Darien. The miners of '49 and later, prospectors and adventurers, coming singly or in pairs or small groups as "pardners," had reached the coast by steamer. For the overland
* It is variously stated as from 2,759 miles to 2,880 miles. 4
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trail was beset with great hardship and danger. Families, with their household goods, horses and cattle, still found it cheaper and more practicable, but only in large caravans, well guarded against attack. By even the best stage routes before the Butterfield, a transcontinental trip from New York to Los Angeles required at least a month. By the Isthmus of Darien it might be done in twenty-two days; but the Butterfield Overland brought the record down to twenty-one days or less. This reduction in time of transit was of course more important for transmission of mail than it was for passengers, and the government paid large subsidies for car- rying the overland mail-over a million dollars a year during the latter part of the time. In this connection one is reminded that an event of such supreme importance to California as the passage of the Act admitting it as a State into the Union in 1850 was not known on the Coast until five weeks later, when the news was brought by boat to San Francisco .*
Faster even, much faster of course, than the Overland Stage was the Pony Express which was maintained for over a year, beginning in April 1860, carrying mail from the Missouri River to Sacramento, a distance of over 2,000 miles. Averaging over 200 miles a day on its regular schedule, it set a record, unequalled before the days of railway and telegraph, when Lincoln's Inaugural Message was carried in seven days and seventeen hours! This, however, did not follow the Southern Route but crossed the Sierra Nevadas to Salt Lake, and thence to St. Joseph. During the Civil War the Overland Stage over the Southern Route, extending through so much Confederate territory, was discontinued for a time. But what was known as the Middle Route, from San Francisco to St. Louis by Sacramento, Placerville, Carson City, Salt Lake and Fort Laramie, was main- tained in fine condition. At this time and for about five years Ben Holliday was "Transportation King," receiving at first $800,000, then $1,000,000, and finally $1,250,000 a year from the United States Government for transporting the mail between the Missouri River (that is St. Louis, which was then the Western terminus of the railways) and San Francisco. A remarkable man, this Holliday had been in his youth a courier in the army, then had come to Salt Lake with a caravan of goods and had risen in ten years to be the head of this great Overland Route. Later he became the owner of sixteen steamers crossing the Pacific ocean. After the war Holliday sold out to the Wells Fargo Company and the Southern Route was resumed. Coming down the coast from San Francisco to Gilroy and San José, thence to Visalia and Fort Tejon, the distance to Los Angeles was about 460 miles. From Los Angeles the route at first was through El Monte and Mud Springs to Cucamonga (leaving Spadra to the south), and thence to San Bernardino. While the Rubottoms lived at Cucamonga the stage changed horses there, but after they moved to Spadra and built the Rubottom house there, the route was changed to pass that way, and thence by the Chino Ranch house to San Bernardino, and so on by Warner's Ranch to Fort Yuma, El Paso and St. Louis.
It was a great day for Spadra when this change in its route brought the Overland Stage through the village. Not only did the stages pass this way, but the Rubottom House became a station where horses were changed and passengers stopped for meals. And the chief event of the day was of course the arrival of the stage. The cloud of dust in the distance and the thunder of horses' hoofs and rattle of wheels, as they approached at a full gallop, gave ample tidings of their coming. Drawn by six or eight handsome horses, the bright painted Concord
* See "How California Came into the Union," by George Hamilton Fitch in the Century Magazine.
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coach, "a grand swinging and swaying vehicle, an imposing cradle on wheels," hung on thorough-braces between the springs, swung into view like a chariot. On the high box sat the driver with his long whip, and beside him the guard or con- ductor, a gun across his knees and a brace of revolvers hanging from his belt. Sometimes the road and fields were full of wagons and teams from Phillips' to the station and far down the road, but a way was always made for the stage. The panting, foaming horses were unhitched from the coach and fresh ones, harnessed and waiting, were quickly put in their places. Fortunate indeed were those for whom the stage brought mail or those who were near enough to the driver to catch his anecdotes of adventure on the road. More times than a few they told of attacks by Indians or holdups by highwaymen, and shots fired in defense as the coach dashed by, or of traces quickly cut, a wounded horse dragged out and barriers removed, while men with rifles intrenched behind the coach held off the ambushing party. Sometimes after a winter rain when the river was swollen with floods, the stage from Los Angeles could not get through. No bridges had yet been built, and before it was safe to cross, bands of horses were driven across the quicksand to pack and settle it.
One of the stage coach drivers of this time was S. L. Gilbert, who came to California in 1858 from Iowa, and who still resides in Pomona, youthful and keen of mind, though over eighty years of age. He tells of the excitement and fascination of the life of a driver, which he followed naturally, as his father had done before him. Driving most of the time on the dead gallop, they encountered many dangers. The chief danger from Indians was beyond Yuma. There the Indians would lie in wait, covering themselves up in the sand with their heads just sticking out. "You couldn't tell the head of an Indian from a crow, and when the stage passed by they would suddenly raise a rifle and let go. Many a driver lost his life in the fight with those redskins. We drove six California horses, and there was never a horse that was well trained. They used to round up a bunch out in the field and herd them into Los Angeles. In a corral they would lasso a horse to the snubbing-post, reach down over the fence and put the harness onto him, then half-a-dozen men would hitch him up to the stage. The corral was where the Pacific Electric station is in Los Angeles today. I remember one time we hitched up six green ponies to a stage, and about fourteen fellows piled in. The driver lashed those horses all the way to Dominguez Field. There was no obstruction in the way, and we went on a dead run. At a ranch near Dominguez Field we had a barbecue, and along toward night started back. The horses were so near dead that we came back at a reasonable pace. That was about all the breaking those California horses got. I have seen a stage-driver start out with a bunch of green horses, and one horse jump on top of the backs of others. Then there would be some pile-up! But it was all in the day's work."*
The Butterfield Stage was finally abandoned 'sometime in 1868 or 1869, but other companies continued to run stages over the same route; in fact it was so much competition that brought the Butterfield enterprise to a close. Other lines were running stages from Tucson to El Paso and from El Paso to St. Louis. Phineas Banning, the leading transportation agent in the Southwest, whose stages and freight wagons were running not only to meet his steamers at San Pedro, but even to San Francisco, operated also a stage line from Los Angeles to Yuma. Thus until the coming of the railway in 1874, Spadra was not without its through
* From an interview with Mr. Gilbert by Lowell Pratt, for the Pomona Progress.
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stage, and after that for a time it was the terminus where the stages from the East met the railway from Los Angeles.
As a notable point along the road of the Overland Stage, it was natural that the Rubottom House should be the central spot in the life not only of the village of Spadra, but of all the surrounding country. Hither came not only the vil- lagers but the ranchers and their children and servants, on all sorts of errands and at all times. A holiday party on May day or Christmas brought whole families from far and near. Every one knew every one else. Especially every one knew the Rubottoms. Uncle Billy had a son and two daughters. Jim, the son, had married Susan Glenn, as we have narrated, while they lived in Cucamonga, and she was a universal favorite, attractive in appearance and kindly to all.
And there were tragedies, too, that were known to all, as in a great family. Of these Aunt Sue had her share, in the death of her first husband, Jim Rubot- tom, and later of her twelve-year-old boy Billy, who was killed in trying to step from one car to another. And then her daughter Ina was hurt and permanently .rippled. Later she has lived a very busy but less troubled life as the wife of Senator Currier, as will be seen. The greatest tragedy of all came to this family while living at El Monte, before they came to Spadra. The younger daughter, Civility Rubottom, had married a Southern officer by the name of Hilliard P. Dorsey, who had won distinction during the Mexican war, and, coming to Cali- fornia in '49, had made many friends in the new West. He was a leader in Masonic circles, having organized the first lodge in Los Angeles, and having served as its first Master. When the first land office was opened in Los Angeles in 1850, Captain Dorsey was appointed Receiver and served in this office till his death. With many sterling qualities, frankness, sincerity and winsomeness and energy, he was entirely successful in business, both public and private, and he acquired two large ranches, one above San Gabriel and the other south of Los Angeles. But in the home life there were troubles. The young couple had built their home on the San Gabriel Ranch near the Benito Wilson Lake, and had been very happy there. But in time differences arose between them which grew to open quarrels, and finally the young wife, taking their little boy, then only five months old, fled one night to a neighbor's house. On a ranch near by was the home of William Stockton. Here they found shelter till morning, when she was taken to the Rubot- tom home at El Monte. Uncle Billy Rubottom, not only welcomed his daughter home again, but warned Dorsey that he must leave her alone. Nothing daunted, the Captain tried to persuade his wife to return, and then somehow got possession of the child and took it back to their home on the San Gabriel ranch. But this did not bring them together. The young mother could not let the child go, nor would she return to the Captain. So, watching her chance, she went to the ranch slipped into the house when he was gone, and captured the baby again, running again to the Stocktons' for refuge. Not daring to shelter them long for fear of the Captain's wrath, Stockton hitched up a team early the next morning and drove them home again to El Monte. On the way they stopped, as every one did, at the store near the Mission. Cyrus Burdick, the proprietor of the store, who knew all the families well, cautioned Stockton. "Better keep out of it," he said. "Both Uncle Billy and Captain Dorsey are dangerous men when aroused and will shoot at the drop of a hat." "I know," said Stockton, "but I must take the girl home to her folks; I'll have nothing to do with the men." When Dorsey learned that they had gone again to the Rubottom home in El Monte, he came down to the store and loaded his gun. "Better not go," said Burdick, "Uncle
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Billy is a desperate man and thinks nothing of killing." But Dorsey replied, "Cy, I won't kill Uncle Billy," and went on his way. The old man saw his son-in-law coming along the hedge, by the path that led to the house, and he stood on the threshold to meet him. Love and honor were at stake with both. The father would defend his daughter; the husband would have his wife. Both were of Southern blood, fearless and unyielding. Both had fought to the death before. It was Uncle Billy who called out, "Dorsey, you can not come in." And Dorsey, still advancing, said, "I'll have my wife or die in the attempt." "Stop," said Uncle Billy, "not another step." But Dorsey, reaching up and plucking a leaf from the hedge, put the stem in his mouth and came steadily on, tossing Uncle Billy one of his brace of dueling pistols as he advanced. At the same moment Uncle Billy reached for his shotgun and fired the fatal shot. Friends of the family uphold them both. "It had to be," they said. "What else could either do?" But those who knew him best said that Uncle Billy always grieved for the man, and never ceased to regret. The baby boy, his grandson, Kewen Dorsey, found his home with his grandfather until, sometime later, his mother was married again. And years after the grandson cared for Uncle Billy in his declining years until his death.
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