Finding Joaquin: Ira Beard, #1

By Steve Bartholomew

Joaquin Murietta, the most notorious bandit in gold rush California. Rangers hunt him in hope of reward. Friends protect him as romantic hero. Ira Beard, bounty hunter from New York, decides to pursue Joaquin. He brings only two men in his posse, but meets a Spanish lady who will save his life three times. Who will get to Joaquin first, and whose head is that in a bottle?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Bartholomew
• Release date: Jan 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215905753

Steve Bartholomew

I grew up in San Francisco, joined the Army after high school. That's where I got my most valuable education. Since then I've lived in a few other places, such as Mexico City and New York. Now I inhabit a small town in Northern California, where we have a volcano and a lake. What more could I ask? I have been writing since age 9. What more do you wish to know?

Book preview

This is a work of fiction. All characters are fictitious and do not represent real persons living or dead. Cover art is by Arnold Peters, to whom I am grateful.

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Chapter One

Ira Beard

Iam Ira Beard. Despite the name, I prefer to be clean shaven. Sometimes that fact confuses folk. I decided to shave when I worked as a beat copper in New York City. In a rough and tumble a beard can be bad luck. Your opponent may choose to grab it and pull your head down to meet his knee. My first month on the job I saw that happen to a partner, and chose not to meet the same fate.

But enough. I came here to tell you about Joaquin. I know you newspaper types, you want all the details and then you make up half of what you write anyway. All the same to me, you're the first I've told the whole story to, so I suppose I'll start at the beginning.

I arrived in San Francisco after a tedious but uneventful voyage by way of Panama, in early Spring of 1852. At the time I had only vague plans of what I might do here. But I did have one objective in mind: to meet the famous Sheriff Hays. After arranging for suitable lodgings, I made my way to his office at City Hall. To my surprise, I had no trouble getting to see him. He rose from his desk and extended a hand.

New in the city, are you? I'm always glad to help out. What brings you to my office, sir? Have you been assaulted or robbed?

He said this in such a cheerful manner I had to grin. No, sir, nothing like that. I merely wished to shake the hand of Sheriff Hays. I'm a lawman myself, you see.

Ah. He seated himself behind his desk. In that case, you will be looking for employment, no doubt. Wish I could help you there, Mister Beard. I would like to have more deputies or constables, but the City has tight purse strings. You're going to have to wait till they loosen up before I can take on any more men.

I leaned back in the comfortable chair he had offered me. I hadn't that sort of thing specifically in mind, sir. I had thought more in the way of setting up in private practice, so to speak, as private investigator.

At this he squinted, as if seeing something at a distance. Might work. Then again, ever consider going out as bounty hunter? A fellow might bring home some cash doing that. He lifted a hand and pointed at something behind me. Now that fellow, there, he could bring a fat reward. Half the state is out to get him.

I turned to see a poster on the wall. It said: One thousand dollars reward. Joaquin Murietta. Dead or Alive. There was no picture or description.

First I've heard of him, I said. You say half the state is after him? What about the other half?

At this Hays gave a short laugh. The other half loves him. I mean the non-American half. It was only much later that I began to understand this remark.

Hays opened his desk drawer, removed a pistol and placed it before me. Ever see one of these?

I took a close look, but hesitated to touch it. Is that a Walker Colt?

It is indeed. One of the first made. It saved me many times from the Comanches when I was running the Texas Rangers. Go ahead, pick it up. Feel its heft. Oh, don't worry, she's fully loaded, except under the chamber of course. My point is, if you're going after Joaquin or his like, you had best be armed with something at least as good.

I picked up the weapon and sighted down its barrel at the poster behind me. Then I replaced it on the desk. I said, Where can I get one?

I found San Francisco not to be quite as barbaric as I had been told. True, many of the streets were swampy, but I could observe a great deal of progress had been made in the past few years. I could see many well constructed buildings, some of them of brick and mortar. The smells were no worse than many parts of New York.  One strangeness I noticed was the lack of women; except for whore houses the entire city seemed to be populated by men.

I set forth to outfit myself. There were a number of dry goods stores and stables in the business section, where I would have no problem finding material equipment. I was even able to find a good Colt revolver and musket, though the prices were outrageous. But these items were not my main concern. The item which I most desperately needed could not be purchased in any store. Sheriff Hays had provided me with an address on Commercial Street, a small rooming house. The man I sought was there at supper time. I arrived as the tenants were finishing. The landlady pointed him out.

Senor Saucedo? I asked.

He had been about to light a cheroot. He turned and gave me a blank stare, the kind of look of a man has who is ready to fight at a moment's notice if attacked.

"Quien quiere saber?" Who wants to know? I had been told he spoke English so I addressed him in my own tongue.

I am Ira Beard. Sheriff Hays has told me you might want some work.

He stared at me a moment longer. Let us adjourn to the porch.

On the porch he paused to light up his Mexican cheroot. I noticed that his eyes, though heavy-lidded as if half asleep, were in constant motion, missing nothing. What kind of work? he said.

Dangerous work. I am a bounty hunter. I mean to go after Joaquin. I need a guide, someone who knows the country and speaks Spanish.

At this he turned to give me a long stare. Then he sat on the railing. He said,

Señor. As you must know, I am Chilean. I came to California to make a living. Times are hard in my own country right now. I came here to find gold. All I found was hard work and grief. The Anglos resent us. They resent the Mexicanos and the Indians and the Chinese, and anyone who is not like themselves. I was driven out of two good mining claims. After six months I had enough gold for coach fare to San Francisco. Here I do what work I can find, not all of it quite honest. Joaquin robs the Anglos. Why should I help you to find him, at risk of my own life?

At that I sat down in a chair facing him. He glanced at me but his eyes were always moving, moving.

I can think of only one reason, I said.

Sí? And what is that?

For money.

He nodded slowly. Yes. I think that is a good reason. And so he was hired on.

I shall not bore you with details about our journey to the mines, by mud wagon and horseback. I'm sure you have heard these stories before. In due course we arrived at Murphy's Camp, a hell hole in the mountains, not far from Sonora. Here we paused to rest for a few days. This wasn't easy, as the only room I could find was infested with fleas and bedbugs. However, the place did have a large store beneath a tent where I could purchase supplies. I told Saucedo – by this time I called him Emiliano – we would need another man, someone who could handle mules. He promised to find someone, and in fact he came in the next morning with a stocky German fellow. His name was Hans Gorst. He spoke English well enough, but I was happy to find he did not talk much. I purchased three horses, two mules, and supplies including guns. The next day we headed south.

I asked Hans how long he had been in the mountains. Too long, he said. I come here to get rich. Instead I got the clap.

I decided to avoid discussion of the man's health. Have you heard about any bandits lately?

At that he gave me a sharp look. You ask about that back at the saloon, I overheard you. Why you want to know? So far I had been careful not to inform the man of the real purpose of our expedition. He assumed I was prospecting.

It's surprising, I said. Before I came here I heard all sorts of stories about bandits. Especially that fellow Joaquin. And yet back at Murphy's they told me there has been little or no trouble lately.

Hans gave a shrug. Not much around here, no. The newspapers always exaggerate. But a week ago I came by a camp where a family was slaughtered by one of those Joaquins.

One of them? What do you mean?

He grinned. You didn't hear? There's at least five bandits out there all named Joaquin. There's Joaquin Carillo, Joaquin Mendez, and I don't know who else. They're all killers, I hear.

Saucedo had been listening. He said, Or so the Americans say. The Mexicans say other things.

I turned to Hans. This camp where the slaughter happened. Can you take me there?

He shrugged again. Long as you pay my salary.

The hills were heavily wooded. It was early springtime and everything damp and dripping. I feared my clothing would mildew. We plodded on for three days near the Stanislaus River. We kept coming across placer miners, some alone, some in larger parties. I mentioned one time to Emiliano Saucedo that I felt surprise at the population.

How so, señor?

At the numbers, for one. I had thought to find fewer men this far in the wilderness. I also thought they would be mostly white men. I have seen some whites, but more Mexicans, Indians and Chinese.

He laughed. You are outnumbered, señor. The Americans are mostly up north in the big mines. Not many women up there. You can find a woman here if you wish, but she will likely be Mexican or Indian.

I must admit this conversation somewhat embarrassed me and I fell silent. Looking back, I think what bothered me was that in the back of my mind I actually had been thinking about women. This was one of our longer conversations on the trail. Hans said nothing unless asked and Emiliano kept his own council. I began to find these damp silent woods oppressive. I decided to ask Emiliano a favor.

Teach me to speak some Spanish.

He turned to me with a look of mild surprise. What for? I translate for you.

Yes, but you might not always be here. I may need to communicate.

He thought that over for a moment. Finally, "Bueno, señor. A ver." And so my lessons commenced. At least they broke the silence.

Chapter Two

The Trail

We had been on the trail about four days when we came upon a large group of Indians on the bank of a creek. I could see they were nearly all women, busy with small sluice boxes. I turned to Emiliano.

Where are the men?

He shrugged and pointed across the stream. Standing guard in the woods, or out hunting. With the Miwok, the women do all the hard work. The men spend their time hunting, fishing and fighting. I guess they have the best idea. Sometimes I wish I was Indian.

I dismounted. An older woman had looked up from her work and came toward us. Most of the others had given us a glance, but never stopped what they were doing. The woman approached, looked at Saucedo. "Que pasa, señores?"

Saucedo spoke to her in Spanish for several minutes. In his first few sentences I at least recognized the word no. From his tone he seemed to be reassuring her of something. I glanced once over my shoulder to notice Hans standing impassively with the animals. Finally Saucedo stopped and turned to me.

Her name is Dolores Two Trees. She's a Coast Miwok, not from here. She was a mission Indian. She came up here to get away from our priests. She wanted to know if we came to drive her people away. White men sometimes do that. I told her we're just passíng through.

I said, Ask her if she knows anything about bandits. What has she heard, if anything?

More words exchanged. Saucedo nodded several times, the old woman's expression never changed, but she raised a hand once to point downstream. Saucedo said, She did hear about a bandit raid. It's about a day's travel south. She heard a cabin was burned. She says the Indian women are not afraid of bandits because their men stand by with their weapons, though you cannot see them. They worry only about white men forcing them away from the gold.

I glanced at the woods. I said, I wonder why they don't let their men do some of the hard work? I had not meant for Saucedo to translate, but he did. The woman shrugged and answered in two or three words. Saucedo said,

She says because men are too weak.

After resting two or three hours to refresh the animals and ourselves, we rode on in the direction this woman had pointed. We camped at sunset with a small fire. A thin fog or drizzle obscured the stars and I felt cold all night. I began to wonder what I was doing there, in those dark hills. In the morning we saddled and rode on without words. By unspoken agreement we went without breakfast or even coffee. We could eat later, when we might see the sun.

We followed a narrow trail that more or less ran parallel to the stream. At times it veered far into the woods, so that I began to feel lost, with no sense of direction or distance. I was relieved when the path approached again that narrow stream and I could hear the reassurance of trickling water. Then we came upon a clearing.

The old woman was right about the burnt cabin. It was not much more than a hut, constructed of logs and split planks with a mud and wattle chimney. Half of it was burned to the ground. I supposed the other half was too damp to catch alight.

Wait here, I told my companions. I entered myself, being careful not to disturb anything if possible. The hut had a packed dirt floor; it was furnished with five bunks around the walls and a rough table and chairs in the middle. Everything was at least partly burnt or covered with soot. Hanging on wall pegs hung dirty articles of clothing, some of them of asize for children. I had half expected to find bodies, but there were none. In a corner near the hearth however I saw what looked like dried blood.

I came back outside. It looks like anything useful has been removed. They didn't leave a pot or a pan. Someone must have taken away the bodies.

Hans had been walking about. He pointed toward an edge of the clearing. Over there. I went to see what he had found. There was a long, low mound of fresh earth. At one end someone had stuck an upright board with one name scratched into it: Pointeau.

Someone killed the family, Emiliano said. No witnesses. I think the miners buried them.

What miners? We had seen no one else.

He pointed south. Over there. I looked above the trees and saw a thin trail of smoke. It could not be more than half a mile. We rode on.

Was it Joaquin, do you think?

Emiliano gave me a blank look. "Ask someone else, señor. Yo