'ROSITA AND DORINA' (Con't) Five Senseless Murders -------------------------------------------------------------------- Crossing the Calaveras River, they journeyed northward to the town of Murphy s Camp. However, Joaquin's dream of riches was dealt another severe blow. Setting up his tent in the tree-shaded camp, Joaquin operated a "monte" game Rosita tended to their cooking, laughing and singing with the other Mexicans. But once again the couple was taunted by American miners, who were jealous of any success Mexicans might have. A group of tough and drunken fellows tore down the tent, sending Joaquin and Rosita fleeing to the river's edge. Alone again, they were ready to call it quits. The afternoon was warm. A dry wind was rustling through the canyons, wafting the scents of sage and oak. Joaquin waded into the splashing waters and scooped up a panful of black sand. He stirred it with his finger. Suddenly he cried out. "Rosita, come quickly. Look, I have found gold! We are rich! Now we can return to Hermosillo, and your father will be proud of me." Rosita waded into the clear water, holding her skirts above her knees. "I'm so happy, Joaquin. Yes, now we can go home." The couple laughed and sang loudly, rejoicing at their discovery. On the shaded bank of the stream, eight Americans heard the familiar cheer. They stormed through the waters and splashed up the muddy banks to Rosita and Joaquin's camp. "So you struck gold," one said angrily. He was wearing a red shirt and slouching hat. "Let's see it." Cautiously Joaquin revealed his find, uncertain what the miner's reactions might be. The grubby crew stared at the tiny nuggets of bright yellow, mumbling to each other. Finally one ordered, "Get off this land, Mexican. It's ours now." The other men kicked at the makeshift cooking stove where Rosita had been making tortillas, tossing them into the fire. Another one reached out to grab her. Rosita, frightened of the strangers, stepped back, tripping on a rock. "Leave her alone," Joaquin shouted. "I have paid my tax for this claim. It is mine." "Who says so?" a heavy, unshaven man spit. "Foreigners don't own land in California." "Yes, yes," Joaquin said, "I paid my taxes. It's my claim" "We'll see who's claim it is," the men shouted, pulling guns and baring fists. Rosita cried out again. Joaquin fought until his eyes were clouded with blood and his senses unbalanced, but he was outnumbered. He was aware of being smashed against the rocky terrain, but only for a short moment. For a long time he lay unconscious, reliving in his mind the nightmare of violence and humiliation he and his beloved Rosita had endured. Her father had been right; she should not have married him. But they loved each other, and he was certain he could make a good life for her. Again his head whirled, his vision blurring. But he was strong and would not die. He awoke, dried blood clotting his eyes and face and clothes. "Rosita," he called out. "Rosita." Suddenly he heard a crying little whisper. "Joaquin, please let me die. Please." Rosita lay in a clump of bushes, assaulted, strangled, and near death. "Oh, no," Joaquin sobbed, seeing his beautiful wife covered with her own blood, her clothes torn from her body. "Please, Rosita. You must live. I love you." "No, Joaquin," she gasped, breathing faintly. "I must die." Joaquin held her gently in his arms, staining her soft cheeks with his tears All night he held her close, the strange sounds of the rustling hills his only company. By morning Rosita was dead, a peaceful smile on her face, her white limbs cold. Joaquin wrapped her in the gold embroidered shawl and buried her body in the rich earth of California. He prayed to the Virgin Mary to always take care of Rosita. Tormented by the senseless murder of his wife and by the ugly acts of violence he had experienced, Joaquin Murietta went on to become one of the most notorious bandits of the Gold Rush era. His reign of terror came to an end in July 1853; he was shot in the back by rangers commissioned by the state to seek him out. His head was severed from his body and for many years was displayed across the country. It came to rest in a San Francisco museum, and there, during the great earthquake of 1906, it was destroyed by fire. In 1949, an old grave marker was found in a pile of rubbish near Murphy's Creek. Carved into the wood was the still-legible epitaph: "Mrs. Joaquin Murietta. Died in 1852. Rest in Peace." To Be Continued . . . Dorina Brennan.. ------------------------------------------------------------------ Copied by Nancee(McMurtrey)Seifert April 21, 2005 iggy29@rnetinc.net