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came into his den, who quaffed his liquor, won his coin, and pattered with his girls.
Speaking of these days, he says, “ The white men cuffed and kicked me. They took my sweethearts by the waist and kissed them to my face.
I fought them in defence of what I felt to be my rights, and those of my companions, natives of the soil.
I fled and hid myself.
The officers of justice followed me. For what?
For wanting to enjoy my own.”
His passion grew with age; a dark and sullen jealousy taking full possession of his soul.
“For some time I went on doggedly, shoving those who shoved me, keeping my sweethearts at my side, and drinking where I liked and as I liked.
One night there was a row, and then I left the town.”
A man was killed.
Seeing a fight going on, an officer interfered, when Vasquez plunged a knife into his heart.
The murderer fled from Monterey.
“ Getting a herd of kine,” he says, “I went to Mendocino county, in the north, three hundred miles from Monterey; but even in the north I was not left alone in peace.
White men pursued me to my ranch; but I escaped unhurt and fled into the woods.
Then I resolved to change my course.
It ”
1875.
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