Individual from Takaki: Joaquin Murrieta

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At 4:50 Wednesday morning in the year 1858, Juan Nepomuceno and his partner, Francisco Villa, arrived at the empty house on Soledad ave. The area was already secured. The campesino who was positioned at the front door gave them a nod and stepped aside. In the vestibule, they were greeted by Hernandez and Rodriguez, the men who had been up all night cutting the body down.

“Who’s crying?” Nepomuceno asked Rodriguez, hearing sobs coming from the distance.

Rodriguez, a husky man in his mid-thirties, shrugged. “The woman who last helped him. She’s pretty much a basket case now. She hadn’t seen him since he was taken 4 days ago; feel bad that she had to see him this way. She says that it’s him. Joaquin. Joaquin Murrieta. You believe her? You really think it’s him? You saw him once, didn’t you?”

Nepomuceno’s nod lacked any sign of emotion. Five dead Joaquin’s. Now six. No witnesses, but it was obvious who did it. Endless hours, weeks, years of keeping him hidden, keeping the American’s on a wild-goose chase. Looks like Harry Love finally caught up to him.

After Rodriguez and Hernandez took off, Nepomuceno and Villa, following the sounds of sobs, found Maria Sanchez at the back end of the house. Wailing mournfully, Maria lay curled in a fetal ball on the dry grass that carpeted the floor just outside the huerta entrance.

“Hijo de la chingada,” Nepomuceno said hoarsely, bile rising to his throat, as he spotted Murrieta’s naked, bound, and grotesquely mutilated body splayed at the foot of the tree; his head was positioned above the shoulders, his open, sightless eyes aimed up to the heavens. The stench of blood, vomit, and rotted flesh filled his nostrils. It was a smell he was all too familiar with, but it didn’t make it any easier. Especially this time.

Villa felt his guts twisting inside him as he looked at the tree, but he didn’t say a word. Instead he quickly shifted his gaze, focusing on Maria Sanchez. Feeling none too steady on his feet, the detective knelt down besides the sobbing woman. “Let’s leave this place, Senora Sanchez. It’ll be easier to talk elsewhere.”

Maria made no response to the suggestion. Her hands were clamped between her thighs, her complexion chalky white. She looked horrible for such a gorgeous woman.

While Villa dealt with Maria, Nepomuceno walked resolutely towards the corpse. He knew he had to work fast before the Americans showed up. He bent over the body, inspecting the face. He couldn’t believe that it was really him, the man he had met a little over a year ago.

He had been smart enough to avoid getting caught for so many years, why now? How is it after 7 years he was finally caught?

Nepomuceno knew that word of this was spreading like wildfire; he had to hide the body, keep the legend alive.

That evening when Nepomuceno arrived at his rancho, Benardo Pablo Juarez, an old time friend, was waiting for him for drinks. They had known each other for twenty-two years and were friends for over nineteen. Somehow, despite the fact that Nepomuceno was born into a wealthy family of Spanish cattle ranchers and Juarez was a poor orphan born into Indian blood, they stayed friends.

“Is it true what they say? Is it really him?” Pablo asked with intrigue.

“You know I can’t tell you Benito. Anyways, when did you arrive into town? I thought you were heading to la capital.”

“I came because of him. I heard news that he was apprehended and I needed to be here for it. I wanted to see him with my own eyes, see if the legend is really true.”

“Ay Benito, the legend is very true and still alive.”

“I want to know the story again. I will be en el D.F. the day after tomorrow and I will be giving a speech to la gente. Maybe after hearing the story again I will be inspired to motivate the people.”

Nepomuceno, at first, cringed at the thought of telling the story again. He had heard it told and re-told countless time but yet he could never get over how emotional it was. Especially this time since he now had an ending. He got up and walked over to the liquor cabinet. “Mezcal?”

“No Juan, you know how strong it hits me.”

“Huevon.”

“La tuya, now hurry and sit down.”

“Esta bien Benito.” Nepomuceno poured himself a glass of the dark liquor and sat himself down. “You know that when California first struck gold, miners from the Mexican state of Sonora were the first ones to get there, verdad. Well, entre ellos was Joaquin Murrieta. After the first wave of Mexicans hit, soon more followed. At the same time, American miners were rushing in from all sides; soon there were more Anglos than Mexicanos and they were making the big money. ”

Benito was surprised and asked, “Los Americanos were making the big money? I was under the impression los paisas were the ones with fat pockets?”

“We were Benito, but we were fools for teaching them the trade.” Nepomuceno was rolling a cigar between his thumb and index finger over an open flame. He had said that last line with anger in his voice. Much like the flame of his match, Nepomuceno was burning hot with anger. “After the gringos mastered the mining skills that we taught them, they decided that they no longer needed us there. To them California was American, all the gold there belonged to them and not the Mexicanos. Our people knew violence was out of the question, they simply objected and settled away from the gringos in the southern parts of California. Pero those pinche gringos were too greedy, they soon started invading the southern mines. Before la raza could do anything, California passed laws taxing los mexicanos and eventually taking away their lands. Los gringos started lynching nuestra gente. What was our people to do? They couldn’t do anything, they feared for there lives so they simply gave up their rights and fled. The Anglos did this!”

Nepomuceno paused for a second. He knew he was getting emotional again. But how couldn’t he? He was furious for what had happened to his people.

“Did all of our gente flee California?”

“No.” Nepomuceno let the word roll of his tongue matter-of-factly as he let out a puff of thick, white smoke from his cigar. “One Sonoran man resisted…”

Both men knew that no name had to be mentioned. Benardo Pablo Juarez had heard the story told many times; he could never resist hearing it. His skin, across his body, started breaking out in goose bumps. He leaned in on the edge of his chair. Nepomuceno also knew that the name needed no mentioning, but out of respect for his now dead compadre he said it anyways.

“…A man by the name Joaquin Murrieta.” Nepomuceno took a sip of his mezcal. “The Americans weren’t about to let one man, a Mexican man nonetheless, stand up to them. They burned his house down. Stole his goldmine. Murdered his children. Gang-raped and murdered his wife in front of him. Beat him with whips and then…” Nepomuceno paused to take another sip of the mezcal and a long drag of his cigar. As he exhaled the sweet smolder from his mouth he continued, “…let him live.”

“Pinche malditos.”

“They let him live to tell what would happen to those who resisted. But Joaquin Murrieta crawled away that day. He got a gun and a horse and became a leader of a band of revolutionaries that raided American settlements from California to Nuevo Mexico stealing money, food, clothing because he figured they owed him. Which, THEY DID!”

Again Nepomuceno had to stop. He hadn’t realized how loudly he had shouted until he realized that his shirt was wet, soaked in sweat and mezcal, which he had spilled from his glass.

“He gave all that he stole to the struggling campesinos of the region. Nuestra gente called him the Robin Hood of El Dorado. Pero los Americanos called him el bandito terible. For seven years he rode in the name of freedom, in the name of family, in the name of all that is right. Few knew his last name. The campesinos hid him from danger. He became a myth, a legend, a ghost. Americans love to play the odds, so Harry Love and his California State Rangers rounded up all the men in the region whose first name was Joaquin and they slaughtered them. Countless men died with their hands tied behind firing posts. Lips sealed as bullets pierced flesh refusing to say they were not Joaquin. Sabes porque? Unidad! Unity.”

Again emotions had caught up with both Juan Nepomuceno and Benardo Pablo Juarez as goose bumps ran up their arms, behind their necks, and down their backs. Both men looked at each other with a certain glance.

“That happened last year when los Joaquins were murdered.” Nepomuceno took another long drag from his cigar. He looked up at the ceiling and let out a tear from his right eye. “Murrieta eventually came to me for shelter. He knew I could keep him safe while he was in the state. I boarded him up with la Senora Sanchez. She was to keep watch while he was in town. Murrieta would come and go but I would never hear about it until I heard word going around town about him being spotted in such and such location. He was always a careful man.”

He paused again to wipe a few tears from his cheek. Benito handed him a handkerchief and Nepomuceno took it without saying a word.

“A lynch mob caught up with him near Stockton. They shot him in the back like the cowards they were.”

Benardo looked puzzled, “I was under the impression that he was hung?”

“He was.” Nepomuceno wiped a few more tears from his red, bruised cheeks. “Though he was shot dead, they hung his body for two days as a sign of victory. They decapitated the head from the corpse and impaled them on two wooden stakes for all to see.”
“Que cobardes!”

“A campesino called me when it was safe to take the body and head down. The Americans were keeping guard until last night.”

“What did you do to the body?”

“We gave it a proper burial. It’s in an unmarked grave. I don’t want the Americans humiliating the body and our pride anymore. We need to insure the fact that his legend will live. We cannot let the Americans kill our hopes and dreams with his body. A man may be killed but a legend never dies. I will not let the legend of Joaquin Murrieta die!”

“You have every reason my friend. If our people have learned anything from Joaquin it is that there are things in this life worth living for, there are things in this life worth fighting for, there are things in the life worth dying for. Our rights are what Joaquin died for and we must do the same.”