Page 31 of A Good Prospect

As he shuffled around in his purse, Knut remarked, “Why do they call this building the Legislature of a Thousand Drinks? It does not appear to be an ordinary grog shop, more of a headquarters for your League.”

“Ah, that’s easy,” Tyke replied happily. “Tom Jeff Green here has served in three Southern legislatures. He had a mighty idea to come to California from Texas and use slaves to grow cotton.”

“Which is why he was ejected from the Yuba River,” Ophir mentioned.

Tyke ignored Ophir. “So Mr. Green here is going back to San José to run for state senator. He has a splendid saloon there known as the Legislature of a Thousand Drinks, so we started up this one here.”

Sal frowned. “And what is your business in Hornitos then, Mr. Green? Shouldn’t you be in San José trying to win office?”

Tyke accepted the paper from Knut, but did not even look at it. “Tom Jeff is spreading the word of a new law about to take effect in California.” He looked Sal levelly in the eyes. “This new law will render all of your rents obsolete, and all things Spanish and negro will vanish from these rivers.”

Sal barked out, “What new law?”

Tyke and Tom Jeff shared gloating looks. Tyke allowed Tom Jeff to speak, as a member of a high-minded body such as the legislature. “The Foreign Miners Tax Law!” Tom Jeff crowed. “Yes sirree, all these damned lubricators who are not native or naturalized citizens will have to pay California taxes of twenty dollars a month for a mining permit. This splendid plan will bolster the state’s bankrupt treasury, and please Americans! The prospector will be able to evict all aliens, we can undercut the agents of foreign bankers who protect immigrants, and collectors will make a commission of three dollars on each permit sold.” He spread a wide arm to encompass the entire state of California. “These greasers are but one degree above the beasts of the field.”

Tyke cheerfully thrust a fist into the air. “The great American people forever!”

Sal was so enraged he couldn’t trust himself to speak. He wanted to reach across the table and grab this Tom Jeff person by the shirtfront—no, better yet, merely cock his pistol and put a ball through his forehead, thus ending any furtherance to this misguided law that had obviously been conceived in drink, Sir Barleycorn to blame.

Knut even appeared a bit concerned about this turn of events. “I am attending the first legislature in San José also. But I cannot say as I would vote for this. Twenty dollars a month is extortion! We are only charging men five dollars rent. Sonoran miners cannot afford twenty dollars a month. And if they leave, who will be the arrieros? Who will bring goods to town?”

“Sí,” Sal agreed, finally able to speak through clenched teeth. “Sonorans are mild in spirit, content to endure, willing to suffer. They are exactly the men for the job of mining.”

“And they gamble!” Knut pointed with his whiskey glass. “Americans save their gold or send it home. Sonorans, Peruvians, and Chileans, they all gamble away their dust.”

Tyke said smugly, “They can claim protection of the law if they pay their tax.”

Ophir asked, “What about foreign-born Frenchmen, Irishmen…Australians? You said foreign-born, non-native. Will they pay the tax as well?”

Tom Jeff raised his whiskey glass. “More whiskeys, Sam!”

Tyke exhorted, “If slaves are prohibited from the mines, then so should the refuse population from Chile, Peru, and Mexico! They are as bad as any free negroes of the North, or the worst slaves of the South.”

Sal seethed, “So you are barring them, then? Barring them from my land? If California wants to enact this Miners Tax on public lands then I cannot stop them, but I control which laws I enact on my own property. And I will instruct all of my men to shoot on sight anyone seen stealing my cattle. I’ve been losing cattle and wasting time engaging in relentless guerilla warfare in my own backyard.”

Tyke handed back Sal’s claim. “I’m sorry, Mr. Palomares. I have no say over what these greasers do in their spare time. When I see a greaser approaching, I cock my rifle and cover him with it. I call to him to raise his hand away from his lasso, and I keep my rifle on him until he passes. You should consider doing the same.” He clapped Tom Jeff on the shoulder. “Down with the Spaniards! Right, Tom Jeff?”

Sal said with narrowed eyes, “I will keep a loaded pistol, cool eyes, and steady nerves.” These men were drunk with whiskey and patriotism. Now they were blaming Spaniards for stealing his cattle, when Sal’s own men had seen only Yankees engaged thus. The Yankees were the léperos, grimy adventurers and exiles from civilization. How could a few men hold out against the thousands who were invading his land? There was no hope—without an army of his own, he could not enforce the rule of his own land. It was predictable that Tyke would deny any involvement in the cattle rustling, and Sal would order his vaqueros to shoot anyone they saw. Sal reached down to snake his fingers around Tamasin’s arm, to indicate it was time to leave, but the enterprising Knut had more questions.

“I have noticed a distinct absence of ‘greasers’ in Hornitos, compared to the last time I was here. Have you already begun eviction, although the law is not yet in effect?”

Tyke and Tom Jeff fairly knocked each other over in their eager elbowing. Tyke burst out with, “Take a look for yourself!”

The three Americans strode to the front door of the Legislature of a Thousand Drinks, and Tyke gestured to a guard to fling open the door. The four citizens of Las Oliveras slowly emerged into the street. Sal was unsure what they were looking at until Tyke—gruesomely actually touching his arm to steer him in the right direction—pointed at a fellow hammering a poster to the side of a building across the street. Sal now saw there were dozens of such posters decorating the downtown plaza, and he went to the nearest one to read it.

MINERS LAW effective imediatly

All greazers, Chilanos and Prooveans must leave

Turn over arms to Americans!

15 days to depart efectiv NOW!

And, pathetically, even as Sal read this poster two bedraggled Sonoran prospectors approached him holding out their pistols as though they were poisonous snakes, and enquired meekly, “¿Dónde entrego mi pistola?”Where do I hand over my pistol?

Sal shot back angrily, “¡Eso es ridículo! Mantenga sus pistolas!” That is ridiculous! Keep your pistols!

Over Sal’s shoulder, Ophir’s words were so hot he could feel it against his neck. “Miners Law is the hanging code of Judge Lynch.”

Tyke McCarthy exulted, “The great American people forever!”

“Viva los Americanos,” Knut said without enthusiasm.

Sal tore down the poster and purposefully ripped it into many squares right in front of Tyke. “Here is what I think of your Miner’s Law, Mr. McCarthy.”

All expression fell from Tyke’s face, and the four Los Oliveras residents stalked back to their horses. Sal knew he would not get a moment’s peace as long as Tyke McCarthy was squatting on his land.