He was born on June 19, 1810, the son of a poor dirt farmer, and the youngest of eight children. From the time of his childhood outside a long forgotten village in Sonora, Mexico, he knew he was different from the other children. One of his earliest memories was lying on his mattress of straw, a young boy of five, telling his astounded mother how many eggs their chickens would lay by the next morning. He routinely told his parents when someone was about to visit their isolated farm hours before they arrived. He seemed to know what the weather would be days in advance, often accurately predicting when the farm would receive much needed rain. His family nicknamed him El Vidente, The Seer.
On his sixth birthday a new talent emerged from El Vidente. He held the wooden toy soldier in his small hand and squealed with delight. It had a bright blue uniform with a black belt. Its white face had red glowing cheeks.
“Thank you, papa!" he said with delight, knowing that even a gift as simple as this one was a sacrifice for a family so poor. "It is like the one that was stolen from you," he added.
His father looked at him quizzically, not understanding what his youngest son was talking about.
"You know, papa," he reminded him earnestly. "It was your favorite. It had the same blue jacket but its belt was white. Your grandfather carved it for you. That bad boy took it."
A flood of memories entered his father's confused mind. It was true. He, too, had had a toy soldier when he was young. His grandfather had also given it to him on his birthday. But how could the boy know about this toy? He himself had forgotten about it until the day he placed his blade on virgin wood to whittle this one. He was certain he had never mentioned it to his young son. And how could the boy have guessed its fate? He remembered the pain of losing it. Its theft, forgotten after so many years, now burned fresh in his mind. He looked into his son's captivating black eyes with both wonder and fear. "How could he know?" he asked himself with a shiver. "How could he know?"
El Vidente's astounding gifts were as natural to him as breathing. He could take someone's hand or perhaps hold one of their possessions and receive an instant impression. These premonitions were a sudden mental picture of what had happened or what would happen in the future. But this conduit into the unknown was almost impossible for him to control. Any act, even as simple as skipping stones across the dirty stream that flowed near his home, would cause him to stop and stare into space. With each rock an image would come to him, mostly dull echoes from the past, too faint to interpret, but they made his already confused life a little more difficult to cope with. It would take years before he would learn to control the images that constantly bombarded his mind.
His psychic abilities sometimes invaded his sleep. He never considered these dreams as reliable as touch, because normal dream would mix with the clairvoyant to create confusing, symbolic visions. As a child, the images were usually meaningless to him, but as he matured, he learned to interpret what he saw. The dreams often offered clearer insight into something that interested him. For example, he might touch a pregnant woman's hand and see that her unborn child would be a boy. A dream might tell him what life that boy was destined to lead.
As he grew older he sadly learned his abilities could be more of a curse than a blessing. True, his family accepted their youngest son's uniqueness, but as the community beyond their farm became aware of this unusual boy, the reality of being ‘different’ took on a frightening meaning. The village padre told his parents that their son's visions were evil, obviously the work of a demon. His father accepted this judgment without question. His mother knew in her heart it could not be true, but she was powerless to challenge her husband or the will of the church. The boy could not understand why his powers were interpreted as evil and not as a gift from God. He could not understand why he was being ostracized by the very people he might have been able to help. This saddened and confused him. He was doomed to spend his childhood feeling isolated from those around him.
As he grew older, the pressure to renounce his psychic abilities became unbearable. When his mother, the one person in his life who had always believed in him, died when he was eleven, his life became one of loneliness and torment. He took it for a year. Then, at the age of twelve, he finally had enough. He ran away from home, never to see his family or his village again.
For the next three years, the young man known as El Vidente led a hand-to-mouth existence, learning the lessons of life the hard way. He traveled from village to village, relying on the good will of those who felt pity for the thin, haunted child with coal black eyes. He learned he could use his psychic abilities for survival, earning a few pesos telling fortunes in the dusty cantinas of central Mexico. In the beginning, he was completely open with the people whose hands he would touch, or whose watches he would hold, telling them in amazing detail what had happened in their pasts and what might lie ahead. But he also learned that his honesty could result in a beating. People didn't want to hear the bad news that lay ahead. The young man was not a fool. He began to edit the information his talented mind extracted from the people he met. He made sure they heard the positive about their future and was careful to mask the negative.
One late spring day during his fifteenth year, in the Sonora town of Grandos, he learned the bitter payback for seeing into the future. He saw death. He had found seasonal work stacking sacks of grain in exchange for something to eat and a warm place to sleep. He also earned a modest income by telling fortunes in a nearby cantina. Word had spread throughout the town about the young man working at the gristmill who had the gift of second sight. One evening, while he was sitting on the splintered wooden steps of the storage barn eating his evening meal, a man came to him out of shadows.
"You are El Vidente? The one who sees?" the man asked in the accent of southern Mexico. He was a thin, hard looking man about thirty-five years old, without a hat, dressed in white linen pants and matching shirt.
The boy put down a half eaten tortilla and examined the man carefully. He didn't sense danger, but he knew to be careful with whom he spoke. "Si," he said after a moment.
"Then you must come with me. Someone very important wishes to meet you."
El Vidente stood and without asking a single question followed the man out into the fading evening light. Unknown to the man, the young man had been waiting for this moment. A few nights before, he had dreamt that he would meet an important man. The dream told him he would learn something from this man, but it didn’t reveal what. He followed with his unusual calmness.
If the dream told him he would learn something that was good enough for him.
As in most of the villages the young man wandered through, the only businesses open in the evening were the cantinas. He liked cantinas and whenever possible tried to pick up odd jobs working in them. It was in a cantina that he learned that people would pay him for telling half-truths about their lives. He felt strangely at home in the company of drunks, women of questionable reputation, and unpredictable men, many of whom would fight to the death at the slightest provocation. He felt at home because in spite of the dangers, these people accepted him for what he was and didn’t pass judgment on him--as long as he was careful with what he revealed. They all had one thing in common. They were outsiders.
He followed the man to a small cantina on the far side of town. He had been warned to stay away from this place: it was trouble. There were other, safer places to earn his money. As he approached the entrance, his inner voice warned him that danger lurked there, but he knew he would go anyway. Tonight he was destined to meet someone, someone who would be responsible for the direction of his future. The man he would meet was an outlaw, a very dangerous outlaw.
The young man followed the man into the depths of the dark cantina and was quickly ushered into an even darker back room. The cigar smoke was so thick he could hardly see. He saw a cluttered table, lit by a dim overhead lantern. It was littered with money, playing cards and dirty shot glasses. A huge figure turned in his chair and looked at him.
"Ah, El Vidente!" his gruff voice said joyfully. He gestured to him in the darkness. "Come here, my young amigo!"
The young man gazed at the man through teary, smoke filled eyes. He saw an overweight, frightening looking man about fifty years old, with thinning black hair sprinkled with gray. The man had huge hands with thick fingers. He looked able to snap a neck like a piece of straw. The man hadn't shaved in days, and smelled as if he had not bathed either. The man had been drinking heavily, and the young man knew that drink would make him even more dangerous.
"My name is Joaquin Pina," he announced. "Do you know who I am?"
El Vidente shook his head, saying no.
"He is a great man!" the man who had brought him interjected with great haste. "A leader! A man who is treated with respect by all!"
Joaquin nodded his head in agreement. "My companiero is right," he said."And they who do not respect me, fear me, which you will learn is the same thing in life. Well, El Vidente, they tell me that you can tell a man’s fortune. This is true?"
"Si," he replied, his eyes boring steadily into Joaquin's. "What they tell you is true."
There was something hypnotic about the man, not that he was falling under the spell of a great leader. It did not take psychic powers to know this man was evil. His dream had told him that he would learn something from him, but for a second, doubt crept into his mind. What could this man possibly teach him?
The drunken smile disappeared from Joaquin's face. The young man's stare unsettled him. He glared back with dead seriousness. "If you were not a child, I would kill you for looking at me that way." He looked around at his men."But that would spoil my pleasure, would it not?" He paused for a moment, expecting El Vidente to reply. He did not. Joaquin looked thoughtfully at a shot glass cradled in a huge hand. "If you can do as you say, do your job, and do it now. Hesitate and you will die. I will pay you well if I like what you say."
"And what if you do not like what I say, Senor Pina?" he challenged. "What of that?"
His men stirred uncomfortably, but Joaquin did not reply. The young man had taken him by surprise. He had expected simple entertainment, not an insolent pup who would try to make a fool of him in front of his men. He was tempted to kill him now and end his insolence forever! That would be the proper thing to do! Yet... There was something about the certainty of his words, something way beyond his years. Something that both fascinated and frightened him to his soul. This young man was someone to reckon with.
"Give me your hand," the young man commanded, extending his.
Joaquin Pina said nothing at first. He stared at him quizzically. He felt dizzy, out of control--a feeling that both angered and disoriented him. He looked nervously at his men, who watched quietly. They, too, sensed that this simple entertainment had transformed itself into something very serious. El Vidente opened and closed his hand in a gesture of reassurance. Joaquin had the disquieting feeling that their positions had been reversed: he was now the boy and El Vidente was the wiser, older man. He brought up his huge calloused hand and offered it cautiously. The young man gripped it...
His vision went red, blood red, like paint spattered across a window. Joaquin and his men watched with unsettled fascination as the pale young man closed his eyes and began to sway slowly back and forth like a tree in a strong March wind.
With his mind, he saw the startling truth. Joaquin Pina would not live to see the sun set on the next day. The young man looked around him. The dark cantina had disappeared. He was standing on the very streets of this town, the hot sun beating on his neck. Flies scurried around excitedly. He could see the body of Joaquin Pina lying in the street, his blood soaking into the dusty ground. In the vision he walked to the body. In spite of the heat, a stiff cold breeze tugged at his chest. A warning? The streets were deserted, as though he were alone in the town. Alone with a body. He looked down. Joaquin's eyes were open, staring vacantly at the sky. They were glazed with a gooey mixture of blood, tears, and dust. Dried blood trickled from his ears. Blood and saliva had joined on his mouth making him look as if he were wearing lip rouge. A gaping hole exploded out of his chest, exposing where his heart had once beat, strong and evil.
The vision ended as quickly as it began. It was a simple story. It had nothing more to tell him. It did not reveal who would be the murderer of Joaquin Pina. It was as if the vision did not care. As his sight cleared, he saw the apprehensive eyes of Joaquin Pina boring into his, waiting for an answer. Should he tell him the truth? "No!" his inner voice shouted. "The truth will do him no good!" He knew this was true. If Joaquin Pina was meant to die, he would die. Revealing the truth would do nothing to prevent it. The truth would only make for two deaths--Joaquin's and his.
"I see a woman," he began in a dreamy voice.
Joaquin Pina looked around at his men and laughed nervously with relief. He had been expecting the worse. "A woman?" he asked tentatively. "Is that what you see for me?"
“Si, senor, that is what I see, a beautiful woman. She is tall and dark and has fine features. She has been looking for someone like you all her life! She has eyes of fire, and a burning desire inside her. She will love you like no one before! You will meet her tomorrow."
Joaquin and his men broke into gales of laughter. The tension that had permeated the room like spoiled meat dissipated in an instant. "That is the news I wish to hear!" he yelled joyfully, pouring another drink into his glass. He put the bottle down and tossed the young man a small bag of coins.
A moment later a hand grabbed him by the elbow and he was quickly ushered from the room by the same man who brought him. Once outside, the man turned to him. Even in the darkness he could see that the man was pale.
"That was very good, my son," he said. "You chose wisely. Senor Pina is not a man to bother with the truth--nor am I."
He looked at the man and in a moment of clarity realized what the man was telling him. He was the one who would put the hole through Joaquin Pina's chest! The man smiled at him like a father explaining a lesson to his son. It belied the evil that lurked beneath the surface, ready to spring out at any moment. He was tempted to reach out and touch the man. A part of him wanted, needed to find out more, but he did not dare. This man would not have been foolish enough to have invited him to the cantina.
"For choosing wisely, I will allow you live, not like the scum inside." The man's eyes grew serious. "But you must leave this town by first light. You know too much. By tomorrow night I will be the boss, and I do not think I will take kindly to a boy with eyes and ears of the devil. Do you understand what I am saying to you, my son?"
The young man nodded his head in the affirmative. The man smiled back crookedly. He reached into his pocket and gave him a few more pesos. "Then go, and pray that we never cross paths again. Tonight we part as friends, men of the world, but tomorrow... If I see you it will be your last day on this earth." He said these words without menace. They were said in a cold, matter-of-fact tone that disturbed the young man deeply. The words contained no hint of emotion or compassion. This man was infinitely more dangerous than Joaquin Pina, who could be easily manipulated by a few well-chosen words. Joaquin gave the man a small nod of understanding, put the coins into his pocket, and left.
El Vidente never knew the man's name, and never bothered to find out. His name was not important. He only knew that the man had spoken a hideous truth. He went to his small room in a shed behind the storage barn and gathered his few meager possessions in a small satchel that he carried over his shoulder. Then, he lay on his mattress to await first light. He presumed that he would be lucky if he got a couple of hours of fitful sleep, but within minutes he was breathing deeply...
That night he had a dream, a remarkably peaceful dream. He dreamt of a land filled with waving grasses, grasses so high that a man riding through them on a horse could easily disappear. The dream showed him a line of beautiful furrowed hills that gently sloped to a peaceful plain stretching to the sea. The land was empty and free, a land of cool breezes and unbounded possibilities. And it was waiting for him.
In the early morning darkness with the dream fresh in his mind, he arose from his bed and without even eating left the town of Grandos, never to return. He now knew that his fate, his destiny, lay somewhere else, and he set out to find where that somewhere was--somewhere, way up the road.
-2-
He headed west on foot, walking the entire day before spending his first night sleeping under a canopy of stars. Spurred on by the threat he had received the night before, he turned his attention to the only thing that made sense to him--finding the land he saw so vividly in his dream. As he headed toward territory unknown to him, he knew that the land he was searching for might not even exist, but that did not matter. He knew he needed a reason to face each day, and what would be a better reason than chasing a dream? Its memory remained alive and vivid. For him, it was more real than the scrubland his sandaled feet wandered over each day. He only had to find it.
His dream had spoken of the sea, so he decided to make his way toward the Pacific coast. He had never seen an ocean before, though he had imagined it many times when he closed his eyes at night. While working at the mill in Grandos, he had heard talk of Mission San Diego De Acala, over four hundred rugged miles northwest on the coast of the Pacific Ocean. There, the Franciscan fathers had developed a flourishing vineyard and extensive irrigation systems and were making the arid land come alive with rich crops. It was told that there was plenty of work for anyone with a strong back and the determination to get there. Many longed to go, but few were willing to risk the arduous journey. He had another reason for wanting to travel there: it was near the sea. "Is this where I will find the land of my dream?" he asked himself. He did not know but was determined to find out.
It took him the better part of four months to travel the distance from Grandos to Mission San Diego. Alternately traveling on dirt roads carved out of the wilderness or ancient Indian trails he discovered along the way, he found the trip long and difficult. He thanked God it was a warm spring, for most nights were spent sleeping outside. He used the money given to him by Joaquin Pina and his man sparingly, buying small quantities of food and supplies whenever he managed to travel through a town or village.
Whenever possible, he made his way across the country moving from one farm to another, sometimes staying for a day or two, sometimes just bedding down for the night in a barn. The people he met along the way took pity on the gaunt young man who came to their door seeking work for food, and he knew full well what a sacrifice these people were making. He always repaid their kindness. The thin young man's willingness to do backbreaking labor impressed those he met. More than once he turned down a full-time job. In such a manner he managed to make his way across the harsh land, finally arriving in San Diego in late September 1826.
For two hundred years the land north of Baja California had been all but ignored by Spain. Though always a part of their vast empire, its extreme distance had left it almost totally unexplored. Modern-day historians have likened the difficulties of the trip from southern Mexico to what is now California to that of man going to the moon. By land, it was a harsh, almost impossible journey over difficult terrain that killed many an explorer. By ship, the way was only slightly easier. Sudden Pacific storms and a difficult current made sailing into the unknown waters of California a journey only the brave or the foolish would attempt. Scurvy and other diseases racked travelers on both land and sea.
But when word eventually reached Mexico City that others had their eyes on California, the Spanish government acted to strengthen their tenuous claim to the territory. The Russians had already established a base, building a fort in the region north of San Francisco Bay. It was rumored that both the French and the British also desired the land Spain considered its own. Spain needed to establish a presence in the territory if she expected to hold on to it. But instead of sending an army, Spain sent a feisty Franciscan priest named Junipero Serra to establish a series of missions between the harbor of San Diego and Monterey Bay over three hundred miles to the north. It was thought that the missions, along with accompanying development of the land, would secure Spain's claim.
Mission San Diego De Acala was the first of twenty-one missions built between 1769 and 1823. All the missions were near the California coast, designed to be hard day's ride apart from each other. The last mission, Mission San Francisco Solano, built after the death of Father Serra, lay northeast of the San Francisco Bay. The Franciscan fathers ran the missions, a hard-working and dedicated sect that was determined to Christianize the Indians and tame this remote land.
By the time El Vidente began his journey in 1826, the missions were already in place. The young man knew nothing of what might await him when he arrived, only that he was journeying to a foreign land where a person willing to work was welcomed with open arms. Later in life he would remember his arrival at Mission San Diego with fondness, but in his mind's eye his first memories were not of the beautiful mission. It was the spectacle of the Pacific Ocean. His dreams had not given it justice. He remembered sitting on a bluff overlooking the San Diego River. From his vantage point he could see the mission and the small town that had sprung up around it. From the mission he followed the path of the river to where it emptied into the sea. The ocean's vast expanse overwhelmed him. He had never seen anything that approached its power and silent, relentless beauty. Even from the distance of the bluff, it was overpowering, infinite.
He stayed there for most of the afternoon unable to take his eyes off the ocean as it disappeared into the horizon beyond. When the sun began to sink low in the sky, he reluctantly made his way to the mission in search of a meal and a night's rest. There, he was greeted by a stern padre who gave the young man a plate of food and a straw mat on which to sleep in one of the mission's out buildings.
Mission San Diego was a beautiful oasis in a mostly barren land. Its grand bell tower seemed to reach the heavens. It stood in the middle of a small but bustling community that seemed to grow larger each day. All emigrants were welcomed at the mission, but they were expected to work. Laziness was not a vice tolerated by the Franciscans. The young man was quickly put to work as a laborer in the fields that spread out from the mission like the spokes of a gigantic wheel.
It was during this time that he would learn a skill that would change his life, riding a horse. His family had been too poor to own one. They only had a stubborn mule that his father would hitch behind his wooden plow. The mule would never tolerate anyone on his back, so the young man had never learned to ride. He quickly learned that life in California was directly tied to the horse, and here at Mission San Diego he would meet the true princes of California--the Mexican cowboys, the proud vaqueros.
His first exposure to the vaqueros was on his second day at the mission, a Sunday. After the morning services, they entertained the crowd with great displays of horsemanship. They held races in the street in front of the mission to the cheers of the entire town. Their skills astounded the young man. The lassos wielded by the vaqueros seemed to have a life of their own. The ropes would fly through the air with uncanny accuracy, bringing down a full-grown bull with a thundering crash. It was then he made up his mind to become one of them.
Within a few days after his arrival, he managed to secure a job in the mission's stable. It was a humble, dirty job, but it was his hope to get to know the vaqueros as they came and went on their daily routine. He watched them closely, asking careful, respectful questions, gaining their trust and slowly learning their ways. He learned to tie knots and practiced with the lasso at any opportunity. He knew the chance of achieving his dream was almost impossible. Most of the vaqueros had grown up on a horse. Their skills were learned from their fathers and their fathers before them. Theirs was a proud heritage, not open to outsiders.
At first they shunned him, but eventually they warmed to the serious, sincere young man. He became their mascot, allowed to ride their horses in the evening in the coral behind the stable. They would line the railings, smoking cigarettes, urging him on, laughing heartily when he fell. They were impressed when he refused to give up. After each fall he would dust himself off and go back for more. His persistence impressed the vaqueros, who began to take his efforts to become one of them seriously. Eventually, they invited him to go with them on their daily rounds around the mission lands. From them he learned what an old vaquero called "the secret of the herd"--how a skilled vaquero could anticipate what the cattle would do before they knew it themselves.
He spent the next seven years at Mission San Diego, helping oversee the Franciscan's large herd of cattle. Learning the ways of the vaquero became a life-consuming obsession. He grew from a boy with no skills other than telling fortunes to become a member of an elite and proud fraternity of men whose skills would be of immense value in the years that would follow. California would soon be entering the years of the rancho, and no skills would be valued more than those of the vaquero.
During the years at Mission San Diego, El Vidente allowed his psychic abilities to recede into the background. For the first time in his life he did not feel the need to know the thoughts of others. His hard-won skills with the horse and the lariat had given him the confidence to face life on its own terms. His life before arriving at the mission seemed like something that happened to someone else, someone barely remembered, long, long ago. Though his psychic abilities were as strong as ever, he no longer felt like El Vidente. His new life was too rooted in the demands of the present to think about the past or what might happen in the future. He was now a vaquero.
-3-
Though his psychic abilities had been set aside, the vaquero never forgot one thing from his past: his dream. Soon after arriving at the mission, he conceded that this was not the place he had envisioned. He knew that his dream lay somewhere else, if it existed at all. Somewhere over the horizon there was a place meant for him, and he knew that someday he would have to continue his quest. But though the dream always burned brightly in his mind, he never allowed it to interfere with his work at the mission or the life he was building for himself among the vaqueros.
His big opportunity came when he was twenty-three. In 1833, the government of Spain secularized the missions, and began parceling out the surrounding lands. Vast tracts were given to former military officers as reward for their service. Though this spelled disaster for the missions, it opened up huge expanses of land on which the vaqueros might practice their craft.
The vaquero spent the next seven years rambling from one rancho to another. With one eye on the cattle and the other on the landscape, he continued his quest to find the land of his dream. He traveled where his work took him, spending a few weeks here, a few months there, but never forgetting his ultimate goal. Whenever possible he worked on ranchos that were closest to the Pacific.
The years slowly took him north. By late summer of 1840, he was hired to help drive a large herd of cattle from a rancho north of Mission San Luis Obispo to the rancho at Santa Clara near the southernmost tip of the great San Francisco Bay. As he traveled northward up the expansive Salinas Valley toward the bay, he was puzzled by the broad coastal mountain range that sprang up to his east. It had been fourteen years since he had his dream, but it was still vivid in his mind. Its memory was firmly etched that when he closed his eyes he felt he could reach out and touch it. These high, rolling hills closely resembled those in the dream, but something was wrong--they were nowhere near the ocean.
As he continued his journey toward the bay, the hills followed in a beautiful, unbroken chain. When he reached Rancho Santa Clara, he could still observe the line of the coastal range as it hugged the eastern shore of the bay, eventually disappearing north into the distance. By the time he was discharged from his duties at the rancho, he was convinced that the land he was seeking might not lie along the ocean after all. Could it lie beside this beautiful, immense bay? It was something he was determined to find out.
He spent two days at Santa Clara, resting himself and his horse and purchasing a few needed supplies. His excitement was growing, but he was a careful and patient man. When all was ready, he mounted his horse and began what he hoped would be the end to his long search. Starting early, he slowly made his way along the eastern side of the bay, heading north until he came to Mission San Jose in the afternoon.
Like the Mission San Diego of his youth, Mission San Jose was a busy and prosperous place. Nestled at the foot of the hills, the mission had been a counterpoint to the older Mission Delores across the bay in San Francisco. When the Franciscans founded Mission Delores, they wasted no time converting the Indians to Christianity and putting them to work on the mission lands. For some, the experience of civilization was a novelty that quickly wore off. It was not unusual for many to rebel against their new way of life, slipping into their canoes and escaping to the vast, empty land across the bay. The Franciscans did not tolerate backsliders. The renegades were tracked down, rounded up and brought back to the mission. After a period of time it became obvious that a mission was needed on the other side of the bay. It would serve a dual purpose, first in the traditional role of a mission, and second as an outpost to help round up uncooperative Indians.
The land surrounding Mission San Jose was astonishingly rich, and for many years the mission prospered. By the time the vaquero arrived, its prime had already passed, and though its land had been parceled out for private use, the mission itself was still a central part of the community--for both religious and secular reasons. As a church, it drew most of the settlers in this sparsely populated region. It was their central religious and social meeting place. But the location of the mission also made it a natural stopping point for travelers going up and down the eastern side of the bay. Just north of the mission was a natural pass that led to the great interior valleys and the Sierras beyond. This made the mission an important hub for both the religious and non-religious.
Soon after arriving at the mission, the vaquero learned of the ranchos that lay to the north. The description of one rancho, Rancho San Lorenzo Alto, caught his attention. He learned that the rancho was set within a fertile, rolling valley that extended from the hills across the plain to the edge of the bay. The owner of the rancho was a former Mexican army officer by the name of Don Guillermo Castro. The wealthy rancher had almost one hundred and fifty Indians and vaqueros in his employ on his large estate. The vaquero turned the name of the rancho over in his mind. There was something about it that made him feel it might hold the key to his dream.
It was too late in the day to start the journey north, so he spent an uneasy night at the mission. In spite of his confidence that he would soon be finding his destiny, he was suddenly filled with anxiety. Would his years of wandering soon be over, or had his dream lied to him? Was this just another useless journey?
As it would turn out, his hunch was right. He would find his destiny at Rancho San Lorenzo Alto, but this destiny would not be an easy one. The course of his life, so very long from the standpoint of one still so young, had only just begun its trip to eternity. God and fate planned another journey for him, a very long journey.
-4-
The morning of August 17, 1840, dawned cold and cloudy. The vaquero had spent the night in a long wood and stone outbuilding provided for male travelers by the mission. He tried to shake off the morning cold by drinking a strong cup of coffee laced with chicory. He was not used to the bay area's unique weather pattern that seemed to defy summer. He had spent his entire life in lands of torrid summers and mild, wet winters. Here, the heat of late summer was forgotten, leaving behind mostly cool days, highlighted by cold mornings and afternoon fog.
An hour after dawn, he left the mission and began the ten mile journey to Rancho San Lorenzo along a road then known as El Camino Del Norte, The Kings Highway North. Originally a simple path used by the Indians on their seasonal journeys along the bay, the path became a natural road along the base of the hills linking the ranchos with Mission San Jose. A mile north of the mission he came upon Alameda Creek, the largest river emptying into the east side of the bay. Workers from the mission were busy constructing a strong wooden bridge across its width to replace an older, cruder one that had been badly damaged during a late spring flood. The wide, gentle river bed revealed no evidence of the violence that sometimes erupted from it during the rainy season. By late summer it was shallow, no more than a few inches deep at any location. He slowly urged his horse into the creek and across its rocky bed to the other side.
The land surrounding the mission side of Alameda Creek had extensive agricultural development. Large fields of wheat and vegetables lined the area within easy reach of the irrigation provided by the creek. Fences divided the land into neat squares and rectangles. But once he crossed the creek and left the area directly influenced by the mission, he was again in open country. There was little evidence of human habitation. The vaquero was impressed. He had never seen land so well suited for the raising of cattle. The broad plain along the bay was easily thirty miles long, two to four miles wide, and almost completely flat. Dozens of small streams fingered their way from the hills to the bay. He envisioned ships docking alongside the bay loading valuable cargos of hides. He couldn't imagine a more perfect combination of resources.
As he continued up El Camino Real Del Norte he encountered mustard grass growing so high on either side of the road that it towered over him even as he sat on his horse. He stopped and considered the tendrils of grass slowly waving in the morning light. The sun was beginning to crack through the fog above it. A small smile of recognition appeared on his face. He had almost forgotten! The grass had been in his dream, moving in the wind like the waves in the ocean. He was now certain he was on the right course. He urged his horse onward.
When the mustard grass thinned, he saw cattle grazing on the plain. Curiously, there were no fences. He would later learn that the herds were allowed to roam wherever the grasses took them. There were so many cattle on the open range the land owners did not even bother to brand them. When the time came for the roundup, there would be plenty for everyone. Until then, the vaquero's chief job was to keep the cattle from wandering into the hills where they could easily become lost, injure themselves, or fall prey to grizzly bears.
Shortly after the noon hour, he entered the boundaries of Rancho San Lorenzo. To his left he could see a huge herd of cattle grazing on the marshy grasses near the shore. Minutes later, he spotted the main house, a broad, whitewashed single story structure with thick walls and timbers sitting just off the road. Numerous smaller buildings surrounded it, no doubt housing for the vaqueros and Indians in Castro's employ. Across the road there was a large corral of curious construction. In a land where cattle was more numerous and easier to obtain than timber, he was amused to see that the corral was constructed entirely of cattle skulls and steer horns. Cactus had been strategically planted to use as posts and to discourage wild animals.
He glanced at the hills to his right, brightly highlighted in the early afternoon sun. Their gentle undulations spoke of great age. He halted his horse and gawked. He was now positive. This was the place he had searched so long to find. The question was, what did it hold for him?
Soon he arrived at the rancho's adobe and wasted no time inquiring about work on the huge estate. From an old Indian servant he learned that there was always room for a skilled horseman. The overseer of the rancho was a man named Juan Valasco, a friend of Don Castro's since their days together in the military. The servant told him that Valasco was known as a firm but fair man, respected by all who worked for him. When he asked where the man could be found, he was told that it was his custom to accompany Don Castro on his afternoon ride.
The vaquero learned that the ride was a daily ritual for Don Castro, something he would do until the day he lost his lands to the Americans. He asked the Indian about his master, and was pleased to learn that he and Don Castro were the same age. He preferred working for a younger, vital man who took a personal interest in the affairs of his rancho. Castro was married to Maria Luisa Peralta, the daughter of Don Luis Peralta who owned the even larger rancho, Rancho San Antonio, to the north.
The servant offered him a plate of food that he gladly accepted. He hadn't eaten since before dawn. He sat under a tree and ate, waiting patiently for Don Castro to return. About forty-five minutes later he saw what had to be Don Castro and two vaqueros approach the adobe at full gallop. He was a man of obvious wealth. He wore a beautiful vicuna hat. His coat was of fine cloth and decorated with expensive metal buttons. His pants were trimmed with gold and silver lace. He was a tall thin man, who sat proudly in his saddle. He had a long, finely featured face with a sharp nose. He looked as if he were descended from nobility.
The vaquero knew it would not be correct to speak directly to Don Castro about employment. It would be an insult to his overseer. Making an enemy was not the way to start what he hoped would be a new life. He watched as the two men entered the open gate that lead to the adobe and dismounted their horses. Don Castro spoke to the two men briefly, putting his hand affectionately on the overseer's shoulder and speaking earnestly. Moments later he left them and returned to the house.
As the two men turned and walked down the path leading toward the stables, he approached them, politely holding his hat in his hands. Juan Valasco was a tall, burly man with a gruff demeanor, but when the vaquero grasped his hand to shake it, he had an immediate, clear impression that the man was not what he seemed. In many ways he reminded him of the outlaw Joaquin Pina, whose death he had seen so many years before. This man had the same charisma, the same ability to lead. But this time it was different. Juan Valasco was a good man, a man who would do anything for a friend. Juan asked him several simple questions, all perceptively designed to measure his knowledge of horses and cattle. He answered the questions as simply and directly as he could. He wanted to prove his experience, but he did not want the man to think him vain. Within minutes, the vaquero had himself a job at least through the fall roundup.
And here at a peaceful rancho named San Lorenzo Alto, he would spend the next twenty-five years of his life, working contentedly on the land he would quickly grow to love. Eventually, he would become the overseer himself after the death of Juan Valasco in a riding accident. He would bear witness to the last tumultuous years before Don Guillermo Castro would lose everything in a few short years to his bad habits and the hordes of Americans that would invade the land known as California. Here, the vaquero was certain he had found the key to happiness, but it was not to be.
No, it was not to be.
-5-
If he could reach into his memory and replay one scene from his years of living on the rancho, the simple memory he would choose would surprise most people. The era of the California rancho was one of the most romantic in history. Stories of the proud rancho life--the yearly roundup of cattle, the fabulous rodeos, and the wedding parties that would last for a week or more--abound. But the vaquero's fondest memory was of a bright and sunny Saturday morning. He had been on the rancho for almost a year, slowly gaining the respect of his peers and coming to the attention of Don Castro. He had awakened early and quietly prepared his horse for a morning ride. Any of his friends would have gladly ridden with him, but he wished to ride alone. The vaqueros had a tradition of riding everywhere at full gallop. To do less was considered unmanly. He always considered this to be a silly and wasteful tradition, but wanting to fit in, he usually rode like the others. But whenever he could find the time, he liked to roam the rancho by himself, riding at a slow and leisurely pace, sometimes even walking his horse through the cool summer grasses.
On this day, he rode out to where the land met the bay. The salt marshes were home to thousands of birds and other wild life. He rode along the shore, eventually stopping his horse near a large flat rock lying forlornly in the tulle grass. He had discovered this rock shortly after coming to the rancho. It sat alone, a quiet peaceful place overlooking the bay. He imagined that some ancient giant had heaved it toward the water but had missed. The vaquero would sit on the rock and look out over the massive bay. Across and to his right, he could see where the peninsula ended at a place then called Yerba Buena, the future city of San Francisco. On this day, the bay was completely empty except for sea gulls diving into its glistening muddy-green water. A strong breeze blew in from the Pacific. Small white caps could be seen on the water as it lapped against the shore.
He turned and regarded the hills that silently loomed over the life of the rancho each day. The morning sun revealed their profound beauty, a beauty he wondered if anyone noticed but him. He supposed that people eventually forgot their endless presence. He knew the hills were not what one might call inspiring. He once took a trip to the high Sierras, where peaks of granite and ice stand in timeless majesty, thousands of feet above the level of the sea. They are a magnificent gift from God to man. They shout out their beauty to all who have the will to visit them. But these hills, these simple plain hills, were God's whisper. In their own unique way, they were more of a challenge, a riddle thrown out by God that could only be solved by someone with a sharp eye and a stout heart. Like the gentle folds of a woolen blanket on a child's bed, they rose from the surface of the earth like ancient sentinels guarding the bay from the ravages of time. Their beauty was subtle and silent. Was he the only one that could see it? Was he the only one who cared?
It was this image he would always hold in his mind. After the rancho was gone and the Americans came and carved up the once wild land, it was an image that gave him bitter comfort. The image was a reminder that the land had been here much longer than men and would be here long after men were gone.
He spent much of his time roaming the hills. His first duty on the rancho was running down stray cattle that would wander away from the herd. One day, he stumbled upon something that sparked his curiosity. Just below the ridgeline of a hill he came upon what looked to be part of broken rock wall. He sat there on his horse for a moment, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette and stared at the rocks with curiosity. He knew that the few Indians still living on the plain did not construct things like this. If anything, they seemed to ignore the hills as much as the Mexicans. The wall looked very, very old. Ancient. It was not high, only two to three feet on an average. Angular sections poked out at intervals indicating that it had once been much higher. The section of wall was no more than thirty feet long where it tapered off and disappeared into the ground.
He looked over to the next ridge, following the wall's line of sight. After a gap of several hundred feet it appeared again. He had an urge to know more about the wall. He dismounted his horse and examined it closely. The sandstone blocks had been crudely carved and put into place without mortar. He removed his gloves and placed his hands firmly on the rocks. It was the first time he had consciously used his psychic ability in years, though it always lurked in the background of his life, whispering in his ear like a gossipy maiden aunt.
At first there was nothing, just the smooth feel of badly weathered stone. Then it came to him, dull, vague images on the edge of his perception. The wall was older than he imagined. Older than the few Indians that wandered the seashore in search of shellfish. He received a weak image of a people who lived along this magnificent bay long before anyone from the outside world even dreamed of its existence. The wall was for defense. From whom? From what? To keep something out? To keep something in? He could not tell. It was too long ago. The fleeting image faded from his mind as quickly as it had entered.
The vaquero always assumed that life on Rancho San Lorenzo would go on forever. It was inconceivable to him that anything would interfere with a way of life that seemed preordained by God. Here on the rancho, man had obtained the perfect balance of life. He lived and worked with men and women who had earned their right to live in this earthly paradise. Little did he know on that day when he sat on the rock admiring the hills that the life he was so fortunate to live would be achingly short.
-6-
Don Guillermo Castro was a complex, hard-working man, but he was also a foolish one. Like the vaquero, he also thought his way of life would go on forever. For him, there was no need to plan for the future. The only thing that mattered was now, and like most of his contemporaries, he was not equipped to deal with the onslaught of emigrants that invaded California, starting with the gold rush of 1849. If he had been more astute, he might have survived with his land and dignity intact, but this was not to be. It was not entirely his fault. The legal position of the ranchos was complicated when California became part of the United States, but in the case of Don Guillermo Castro, his downfall was exceptionally humiliating.
The demise of Don Castro actually started well before the discovery of gold and the coming of the Americans. His downfall was gambling. Cards were his game, specifically a game known as Three Card Monte. In the beginning, Don Castro had plenty of money to spend foolishly. He land was unbelievably rich, and nourished an apparently unending supply of cattle. Each year, the ships would come from Europe in ever increasing numbers buying all the hides the rancho could produce. There appeared to be no end in sight. But the end started to come. The huge herds started to thin. The laissez faire attitude toward the cattle's ownership stopped. Brands began to appear on virgin herds. Fences began to spring up on the once seamless valley. In a few short years Don Castro found himself in a position that he had never dreamed possible: he was broke. He began to borrow money from other hacendados to pay for cattle and his easy spending habits. The vaquero bitterly remembered a trip he took with Don Castro to Southern California with $35,000 in borrowed gold. They went to buy much needed cattle. Don Castro lost the money gambling.
After the gold fever began to cool, squatters began to appear on rancho land. At first, the vaqueros evicted them with ease, but the stubborn emigrants invaded in ever-increasing numbers, and used weapons to defend themselves and their claims. When California became a state, their claims to the land were given equal weight with the ranchos, resulting in costly court cases. In a desperate effort to obtain money, Don Castro made up a crude map of a proposed town surrounding his residence. His aim was to sell off lots. He befriended a former miner and boot maker named William Hayward and sold him the first large chunk of rancho land.
It was the beginning of the end.
The vaquero watched the developments with increasing disgust. In 1840 when he had arrived at the rancho, it was beautiful, unspoiled territory. By 1856 its heart had been cut out by a twelve-block subdivision. Castro's beautiful adobe was now surrounded by streets and strangers who looked upon the vaqueros and their way of life with disdain. The distraught vaquero took solace in drink. Drinking dulled the images that flooded his mind, images that told him he no longer had anything to live for. His way of life had slipped away from him. It was more than he could endure. His plan was simple: he would drink until he was dead.
Don Castro's slide into the oblivion of history was given a final helpful push by a rich capitalist named Faxton D. Atherton. The astute Atherton knew of Castro's situation. He knew of the thousands of dollars of notes held against Rancho San Lorenzo by haciendados up and down the California coast. He also knew that these proud men would never foreclose on one of their own. But he could. He quietly bought up the notes for pennies on the dollar, and within months owned a large chunk of the rancho. In 1864 the remaining 27,000 acres, including Castro's beloved adobe, went on the auction block. Atherton bought it for $130,000 in cash. The vaquero would always remember the day Don Guillermo Castro left Rancho San Lorenzo forever. The cattle were gone and so were the horses. Only the vaquero and a handful of servants were there to witness the sad ending. Don Castro gave him a fine suit of clothes and his vicuna hat as a gift for his loyalty. And suddenly, like a whiff of smoke rising from a chimney, Rancho San Lorenzo was no more. Don Castro, his spirit broken, left California for Chile, never to return.
The remaining land was carved up and sold. Those who once worked the rancho left, many settling in a small town known as Pleasanton on the eastern side of the beautiful hills. They wished to escape the memories of a good life suddenly gone forever. Only the vaquero remained. He haunted the land like a living ghost, a curious reminder to the newcomers that the land had once been in the hands of others.
Rancho San Lorenzo disappeared. In its place emerged a town eventually named Hayward. But the man once known as El Vidente remained, wandering its streets, drinking in its saloons, and telling fortunes for money. As time progressed, the town forgot who he was. The once proud vaquero grew old, slowly deteriorating, slowing losing his mind and his psychic talents to drink.
But within the drunkard there was another man, a man that was not mocked by those he met. This once proud vaquero was a man cherished and trusted, looked upon as a leader. He was a man that was kept secret until one day in 1891 when a strange looking man with an odd accent sought him out.
And he saw...
