The San Gabriel Years

By "Mark Paul" Sebar

A historical western set between the years 1858 through the early 1900's from Texas and the wild west through California. Grizzly Bears, Marauding Indians, Flash Floods, Bush-Whackers, Gun-Slingers, "The San Gabriel Years" brings to life real historical figures like you have never read before in this rare and fast-paced tale by American Author and Poet "Mark Paul" Sebar. Travel the lonely mesas, scale steep mountains, travel through poison oak and talk to ghosts of the past as the main character grows and changes with the times.

• Language: English
• Publisher: "Mark Paul" Sebar
• Release date: Sep 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781930246560

"Mark Paul" Sebar

My most important love is story telling of fictional tales, far away places, memorable characters, great beginnings and surprise endings. I can author work across many genres comfortably. If I can connect with you my reader, then I did my job and we are hopefully, both happy.II don't try to author woke, politically correct content, but rather entertainment value work. I like to think of my stories as having a 'Movie in your mind' and if I connect with a reader that way, I have done my job.From my "Sheriff Wyler Scott" franchise to the "CalHouse" Technological terror tales of the 21st century, to a diabolical Veep at Weasle Mortgage and Loa in "$$$Amount Due$$$" to a dying man kidnapped in place of a woman by grey aliens on a disc in "Captura" ... I like my readers to be able to visit all types of places. Even in time, take "Skyway Arizona" where a 747 makes an emergency landing in the year 1885. Or a future detective "Turbadia" a detective from hell for the bad guys who seems unstoppable, to a religious scifi confrontation in the future "Thunder Dead" God versus the Devil and grey alien.It is that imagination, the travels with the characters, the places they have been, a hopeless situation turned around, this is what is important, an escape from the real world for several hours to go on those adventures and meet new characters.That is my world and I hope it 'Rocks your mind' for several hours. Humbly yours, American Author, Poet, Filmwriter and Songwriter, "Mark Paul" Sebar.

Book preview

The San Gabriel Years

By

Mark Paul Sebar

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright © 2014 All Rights Reserved

Cover Artwork Copyright © 2014

Sebar Publishing

ISBN 978-1-930246-56-0

Publication Date 09/2014

TX Pending Library of Congress

http://www.sebar.com

Chapters

01 Beginnings Old and New

02 Comancheria

03 The Journey with Friends and Foe

04 Lonely Trail of Tears

05 Eldoradoville

06 Ranch Job

07 Building Growth

08 Monarchs and Water

09 The Water Wars

10 Old Baldy Bruins

11 A Glycerin of Gleason

12 Sky Echo

13 Reunions

14 Times Change

1987 Glendora

Other Sebar Stories

Chapter 01 – Beginnings Old and New

Now let me tell you my life story boy. My days are running down and I come from a distant place when I was a younger one. It was a dreary place here in this Southern California Hospital. Middle of a God Damned World War, flying contraptions, horseless carriages, all alien to a century I had grown and witnessed. On this hot August day with a blue sky, I lay here waiting for the final rest to take me. Perhaps back home with my family and the almighty if he’d have me.

My young days started out in a small town in East Texas, called Henderson. I’d come to meet the old man himself, General James Smith. He was a rugged looking feller, one who kept a tidy appearance. The old man was out and about and I waived with a smile. Now I was only eleven years old at the time and I didn’t know we would be leaving this town; my home for a land far off. The year was 1859 and word had spread across the nation of the California Gold Rush. It seemed that since around the time of my birth in 1848, people was coming all over to scramble to California. Tales of giant nugget of the glittering metal had caused a huge rush west and my dad was no different. We had heard tales of this far off land, the big bright Pacific Ocean, the tall mountains and secluded valleys that rivaled the Garden of Eden itself preached in God’s Holy Bible. Yeah, this new State of California was the hot place to stay, and so plans had been drawn up. We’d start at sunup in a few nights on the weekend after the annual barbecue.

That night, they were dancing and a guy turned the beeves on the skewer as it slow cooked over an open pit fire. The crickets were at full chirp and my folks were socializing. Mom stayed with her friends and they sat watching the dance, while dad downed bourbon, then he took to puffing on a cigar. He was talking to the guys and I couldn’t quite hear what it was about. Mr. Smith was delighting them with war tales I think, and it was laughter. I cautiously made my way to dad’s side and Mr. Smith rubbed my hair with a smile. Never let em get the best of ya kid, he winked and he pulled out a hard candy stick, handing it to me. Yer son here, James, a fine lad, he added.

Yeah, dad replied, placing his arm around my shoulder and pulling me closer while drinking that shot. He is a fine young man; does his mother proud, and she smiled at him from where she was seated.

They played a fiddle tune with Irish sounds and Mr. Smith took a deep breath with a polite smile. The misses is waiving me for a dance, he told my dad. I better oblige her this one, and he left.

That is a very big man, right their son, dad told me. Been in several victorious wars, owns all this land. He’s a part of history.

History? I asked him.

Man like that makes it, dad smiled. Now why don’t ya grab a plate of beans and beef for your mother?

Okay dad, I replied, making my way to a woman at a small log. She grabbed a tin plate and forked on it, a slice of hot beef, then splattered beans. Thank you, I told her as she handed the plate to me.

You are welcome James Cyder, she replied and I took that plate with a fork and knife to mom.

Dad wanted me to get this for you mom, I told her, handing her the plate.

The night wound down and we were packing stuff in the wagon. Dad had sold our cabin and most of the older possessions for this wagon that would be our new home. It was to become a long journey, as our travels would be about 15 miles per day or less. The horses were both old and tired looking and I wondered if dad should have gotten different ones, as I could see the slight worry stamped upon his face.

You look scared, son, dad told me.

Well dad, I am. I ain’t never gone far from this town and it is all new to me. Where will we sleep? How long will this far off land called California take to get to?

Oh, he replied. I reckon about 6 months, maybe less. All depends on things, how them horses hold up. We might have to stay in some small towns to earn grub so might take longer, but eventually we’ll get there.

What about the Indians? I asked and he squatted down in front of me.

Remember what I taught you, how to load the powder in the rifle, how to aim and squeeze that trigger.

Yeah, I remember.

Well if n it does, ya might have to do that, but probably won’t happen at all, he smiled. We’ll be heading to a place called Fort Belknap west of here. From there we will pick up a well-traveled trail called the Butterfield Trail. The army regularly patrols it so the chances of running into Indians will be small.

Thanks dad. How many days will it take us?

Mr. Smith approached our wagon, patting the horse on the neck as he made his away around it to us. About a month, he commented. Maybe less. Depends how far you go each day.

Dad walked around shaking hands with him. We are going to try for about 20 miles per day, maybe more.

I don’t know about it, Mr. Smith turned an eye to the hitched old Roan. Old horses and they look a bit tired. I’d say keep em at no more than 15 and stay on the main roads. General Smith glanced at mom as she brought out blankets and some old pillows. He helped her up into the wagon and dad was a bit jealous but held his tongue. Well John, he told dad. Have a safe journey. Comanche’s been stirring up troubles. If ya stay the trail you should be okay. I’d recommend maybe hitching up with a wagon train. Lotta folks heading California way for that gold.

Okay, my dad grinned. Thanks.

Then Mr. Smith bent down and handed me a hard candy stick as he’d done in the past. Here ya go lad, he smiled. Standing to face dad and reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a few coins and handed them to dad. Now, now, you earned em from the project on my plantation, so these are pay.

Dad glanced at him a moment and he wanted to say something, but swallowed his pride, took a gulp and they shook hands. Remember, Mr. Smith again warned. Stay on that trail.

Okay, dad smiled and Mr. Smith parted. As he walked away, I realized I probably would never see him again or this town. In a sense, it was very sad, the place I’d grown up, disappearing, yet this new land called California seemed large, welcoming and mysterious from what I could gather.

It was the dark of morning and we loaded into the wagon. I turned one last time to glimpse our old home, wishing we could stay, wondering what it would have been like to grow up here amongst the rolling hills and countryside. Dad drew the whip, cracked it and he and mom rode up front as the horses began our journey. The sun rose behind us while the day’s beginning dragged on. We got about 20 miles that day according to dad and it felt odd, alone in this big open country. The spot dad had picked to stake out for the evening, was perfect and near a wooded area with a small stream nearby. Dad and I took the horses while mom tended the campfire, cooking and eats. We walked the horses to the stream and watered them. They were sure thirsty, and they loaded up on the cool running waters. Later we took them and tied them to an old fallen branch near grasses and they ate, filling their bellies with the drier grasses.

When we made camp with the horses. Mom had already cooked up grits and fried eggs and we sat and ate the food. The day had wispy blue skies, and the sun set in the distant west, while I pondered thoughts of the new land. It was indeed a golden sunset and with the distant sky glowing gold, I attributed that to this place called California. It had to be that they had so much gold there that the sky glowed gold much like a lantern, and we were the moths attracted to that bright light of metal and wealth.

Our first night away from town and home felt odd. There was an owl hooting and in the distant a lone coyote howling at a very bright moon. The stars twinkled above our head as we said our prayers and dad had rifle in hand to stand guard over the encampment. I hopped up in the back of the wagon, and mom tucked me in under blanket and she slept on the other side.

Sunup came early that morning and I heard a distant gunshot from a rifle. Mom was already out cooking and pa returned with a bird in hand. He tossed it to her and she took knife to it. We ate hardily and loaded up camp for day two. It was particularly warm this day and the high sun in midday caused a small detour to a creek. Pa and I unhitched the horses and watered them, before hitching them up again. Then we made tail towards the northwest of his compass and got about thirty fast hard miles worth of travel.

Three days had passed since that first night and the landscape had changed. There were wooded areas, but they had become sparser as we headed west and north towards Fort Belknap. Dad had tended to keeping us always from other campfires as the area was rife with people willing to rob, murder and jump ya every chance they got, so we kept to our selves and kept the fire out at night as not to give away our presence to others when it could be done. The days also seemed to be getting hotter as we headed further west, and I wondered if it was all that gold they had in California that might be making things hot. After all, it was similar to the sunsets we’d watched each evening.

The following morning we were getting up when we heard the sound of galloping horses in the distance to the west, ahead where we were headed. None of us knew what to make of it, except there were quite a few hooves on the open country and they grew louder each passing moment. Dad got his rifle and exited the back of the wagon, then turned to us, motioning us to stay inside as he walked toward the front of it.

I couldn’t help but crawl up front to take a peak from under the driver’s bench seat and it was a welcomed sight. They were in blue uniforms and they appeared to be soldiers from the states of America. I watched them approach and their captain sat atop his horse as dad approached, his rifle now lame in his hands.

Hello the camp, the lead commander called aloud. He walked his lone horse towards dad while the others waited behind. Where you folks be headed?

Fort Belknap, dad replied. We were hoping to pickup the Butterfield Trail to California.

Been problems in Indian Country west of the fort. Ya might want to pair up with a wagon train, at least give ya a fighting chance. Comanche’s been raiding and killin’ folks like you people out west.

We’ve been keeping a dark camp at night, tending to ourselves, dad replied.

Well, best be on your guard once you leave the fort, he reminded him. Then he took a gander around at the open country. Great Republic of Texas. I reckon yer heading west for that gold rush in California?

Well yes, we are, dad seemed a bit surprised.

Don’t surprise me none, lotsa folks got that same fever. Well, you folks stay with a wagon train if ya can. That California land is far off and lotsa bad people and injuns between here and there.

Thanks, dad fixed his hat with a smile.

The commander turned his horse to glimpse us one more time and then rode back to his troop and they galloped east of us. I sneezed and dad turned to me. You don’t have to hide, he grinned.

Twelve days later we had come quite a distance, pausing that night by a dry creek. The area was mostly desert like, with brush and weeds here and there, and there were some rolling shallow hills before us. Dad, how much further? I asked.

My dad was never the type to show worry, but at this moment I could read it on his face. Were we lost, far from what was our home or was this Fort Belkner closer than we thought? Tomorrow morning, I’ll hike that hill and see what lies ahead, he replied, patting me gently on the top of my head. He checked his compass, flipping it open and stared up at the North Star in the