Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

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Jitil SMI (A true story) N the year 1850 Jasper O’Farrel, an Irish engineer who ( 3 ) came to California in the early 30’s, bought from an original grantor for a few cattle, a piece of land that now comprises almost all of western Sonoma county. “Jose,” said O’Farrel one morning to a tall, straight, black haired, black eyed young fellow who was smoking a cigarette and lazily sunning himself on the east side of an old adobe barn, “you and Pat get on your ponies and go to Fort Ross after that bunch of steers we took up there last fall. You better pack Old Baldy up with enough grub to last a week, because those steers will sure be wild and will round up like a pack of antelope.” Jose was twenty-one years old. His mother was a squaw, but his father was a Spanish gentleman, at one time a rich ranchero, who lost his fortune, and, incidentally, committed sucide when his big black failed by a nose length to beat out a little bay filly, on one of the numerous holiday festivals of early California. Jose’s heritage was a pair of silver spurs, taken in the sack of the Alhambra, a red silk scarf, and the ability to sit on anything on four legs. It was the latter that got him his job on the O’Farrel ranch. Pat, O’Farrel’s nephew, a mere boy, was an irresponsible, blue eyed, red haired, wiry little Irishman, the favorite of the ranch and neighborhood. “Yes, my friend, that was a very good throw, but it would be better if you would make your arm and wrist do more work; sit up straight and don’t sway so.” It was Jose who said this to his friend and protege, the young Pat, when the latter had at last, after about the thir¬ teenth attempt, successfully roped the Irishman. They were riding along in the little valley a few miles above what is now the town of Cazadero, where the Austin Creek ceases its tumb- ling, and travels in a leisurely dignified course for a few hun¬ dred yards. It was the middle of the afternoon on the first day of their trip after the cattle. “Regard me closely, Amigo, and I will show you how. Get a few paces further away. Ah! now that’s it; watch!” 9

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UTER RRY

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Jose took his rawhide lariat from the horn of his saddle, whirled it twice around his head and with a dexterous twist o his wrist and forearm sent the snaky coils at Pat s head. I he rawhide rope uncannily uncoiled itself across the fifty foo space and settled squarely on Pat’s shoulders. Did you see how that—”, but Jose never finished the sentence. The drowsy little buckskin that the Irishman was riding, head-down and apparently half asleep, saw the rope, and remembering the hot iron that followed the choking cord, gave a cat-like Sphere was a crack, like a pistol report, and Patrick Calla¬ han was squirming on the ground with a broken neck. In an instant Jose had the limp form in Ins arms Oh, my friend, my friend, tell me you are not hurt; surely Jose could not hint his friend. Speak to me, please! please!” Two blue eyes opened and looked into two frightened black ones. “Quit your bawlin’, Joe; I’m a goner; neck snap¬ ped. What’s the difference? No good, anyway. Say, Joe, tell the boys I went prospectin’; they won’t believe you if you tell ’em the truth.” The last words were barely distinguish¬ able, and a minute later Pat was dead. Jose’s conscience said, “Confess, make a clean breast ot it,” but his Indian blood argued, “It will not bring Pat to life, and besides they might hang you for it and you are innocent. So Jose told Judge Jasper O’Farrel that Pat went prospecting. Judge Jasper O’Farrel called Pat forty Irish adjectives and said prospecting was a good occupation for such a worthless An excited cowboy broke into Jasper O’Farrel’s siesta. “Judge! Little Pat‘s dead, and what’s more, he’s been dead six weeks, and what’s more that low-living, black greaser you think so much of killed him. Honest, Judge, we found him in a ditch about thirty miles up the coast, half covered up with brush. We heard that old yellow hound bellowing, so we went down there and there he was. If that — half-breed doesn t swing, I’ll herd sheep.” “Hold on, son; there will be no lynching around here, not as long as I’m sheriff and judge of these diggings. If Jose is found guilty by a jury I’ll sentence him, but until then you keep your hands off, this is a law-abiding country, see? “Aw, shucks, Judge, you don’t have to have no trial for 10