Jack Powers: Lion Among Rats
9. Jack Goes Bad
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9. Jack Goes Bad
From “Remembering Jack Powers” by Bill Horace in the Los Angeles Star, 1876.
It took six months from the Arroyo Burro incident, until the start of '54, for Jack to finally lose his followers, so that he lay exposed to mortal threat from Den. For the most part he’d been passive, merely following developments in Santa Barbara while observing his position in Los Angeles evaporate. Without a ranch he claimed to own, and especially without retainers, he could no longer be a peer of Angeleno dons.
But in one thing he was active. Jack's prestige in San Francisco, so important for its own sake and so essential to his reputation here, was now seriously threatened. The City heard about the violence in Santa Barbara. It was confused by the reports that Jack defied the law as ruled by California's highest court and was responsible in some way for the stabbing of a sheriff. Jack’s greatest single worry was that Broderick might cool to him, because the great man's open patronage of Powers was like a magic charm among the wealthy Californios.
Jack steamed up to San Francisco to learn what City folks were saying. His reception was a little off, a little clumsy, so he came up with a most audacious plan. He went to his old friend and fellow Irishman, John Nugent at The Herald. He told that editor he needed his assistance to dispel some ugly rumors, and offered an outrageous fiction. He said that Californios in Santa Barbara, still chafing at the gringo conquest, had tried to drive him off his lawful homestead where he supported twelve retainers, all U.S. Army veterans like himself. That they were forced to make a violent resistance to validate the rights of all Americans who wished to settle in the Lower Country. This picture was so patently ridiculous, and so contradicted every fact, that it was shocking Nugent bought it. But The Herald pushed the story over many weeks until it was accepted broadly and the topic drifted off. From this point on, there were two versions of Jack Powers. In Southern California, Jack was barely an American. He called himself an Irishman, spoke Spanish and adopted local manners so convincingly that he'd become a kind of native in the public mind. But up in San Francisco, Jack was all-American, a symbol of his nation's thrust into the Californian heartland. Not only was he not a criminal, he was a hero dressed in Stars and Stripes.
Jack's success appeasing San Francisco had a fatal impact on his character. He’d always been sincere because he had no reason not to be. His natural gifts and personality had fueled his celebrity. His actions were spontaneous and artless, which was no small part of their appeal. But when, for the first time in his existence, he was compelled by mortal danger to be false and calculating, he was astonished with his own success. Had Jack not had to pass a lie upon the San Francisco public, he would never have become a criminal, or certainly the ruthless criminal that he became. It seemed that it was possible to utterly deceive the world if one was bold enough and shameless. This discovery transformed him and is the only explanation, in my personal opinion, for the suddenness with which he slipped into the role of bandit king and murderer, and made war on his race.
* * *
Jack's visit to The City had a most important consequence. He knew that Dr. Den would only murder him if needed. Don Nicholas would much prefer that Powers simply flee to San Francisco and not return again to Southern California. If Jack had any doubt of how impossible this was, he could be certain of it now. His fame in San Francisco was no longer rooted in his glory days around the Mission. He’d now become the man who'd gone down to the Spanish Country and made himself a king. Any sudden relocation back to San Francisco would be inexplicable and revive those rumors he had just suppressed about his reckless and illegal conduct.
Nor could he let the Lower Country see him driven out. When he first returned to Santa Barbara for that aborted cattle drive, he was merely having fun. Nothing in his life was serious. But he'd grown proud from three years lording in Los Angeles and won the greatest possible respect. Dons visited his sala and called him their companion. Some had made him their compadre. To the common Californian, Powers was a demigod on looks alone. Just as he’d believed he had to fight at any cost to keep Arroyo Burro, he could not possibly endure the shame of fleeing Southern California. He would seem (because, in fact, he'd really be) a coward. And cowardice meant social death in all of California.
* * *
Now follow closely, because here Jack Powers makes the most important calculation of his life, a tragic one for someone of extraordinary gifts.
Jack’s Veterans were gone and so the only person left in his employ was his Californian wrangler, Pio Linares. Jack had sold his herd of swine but moved his horses to the new location where Linares stayed to manage them. Pio understood what Jack was facing, more clearly even than his bold patrón. He told Jack not to kid himself. Don Nicholas would kill him at his first good opportunity. There was no time left to waste if he would flee. Jack expressed particular reluctance at abandoning his mustang breeding exercise, especially as he had found in Pio someone who was qualified to help. Linares shared the same regrets, but he’d already found some new employment. When Powers prodded him to tell him what this was, he made Jack swear to keep it secret.
What Linares then told Jack astonished him. The Californian asked him what he knew about a Californio named Salomon Pico, a cousin of Don Pio Pico, the last governor before the conquest and lord of the great valley of the San Fernando Mission. Jack said he’d heard the name of Salomon when he arrived in Santa Barbara with the Army, but otherwise knew nothing of the man. Linares then informed him that this Salomon so hated the Americans, and was so ashamed that his great relatives had not resisted them more firmly, that he had formed a gang of young, like-minded Californios. When gold was found almost at once after the conquest and Americans began arriving in great numbers, he was determined to keep them out of Southern California, the great heartland of his race. As at that early date there were no steamships servicing the coast, the first gringos had to ride down through Salinas Valley, past the San Luis Obispo Mission where the Linares family lived, on the road to Santa Barbara. Salomon Pico and his boys killed every gringo they encountered on this stretch. He even cut their ears off, stringing them on what he called his “rosary.” The best place for his depredations was the almost empty country at the source of the Salinas River close to Mission San Miguel, and further south a bit toward San Luis. But as this was not the bandit’s native region, he hired young Pio Linares, then still in his teens, to join and guide his gang. Thus, Linares told Jack Powers, he had learned to be a bandit from a master and was expert with a pistol, which was unusual for Californians. When Saloman abandoned crime within a couple years and fled to Baja California, Linares gave it up as well.
But now a brand new opportunity had sprung to life. Raphael Herrera, Joaquin’s lieutenant called El Huero, had gathered up the cream of Murrieta’s army and would revive the strategy of Pico. His focus was that same desolate and lonely stretch between the Missions San Miguel and San Luis Obispo, where he could operate with little fear of interference. El Huero was more interested in profit, robbing cattle buyers heading south, than in preventing any gringo immigration, and he’d discovered this was now becoming possible. The past few years, the cattle buyers heading down to Santa Barbara used the steamships, and had gradually forgotten all the dangers of a horseback trip past San Miguel. But there were reasons now to make the ride. San Luis remained the final stronghold of the Californios. Only a handful of Americans tried to settle in that very hostile county, but they were chasing a big chance for gain. Demand for beef in San Francisco continued very strong, and buying it in San Luis cut weeks off of the cattle drive compared to starting out from Santa Barbara. New drovers, with no knowledge of the place and its past dangers were now coming through Salinas Valley bringing gold to San Luis. This was what El Huero and his Sonoraños wanted, and Linares, with his extensive local knowledge and past criminal experience, was asked to join them in this lucrative endeavor.
Pio’s information set off bells between Jack Powers’ ears. Just as when he first came to Los Angeles, he saw how he might weave a fabric out of many different threads. His first and most important need was muscle. He had to have a bodyguard of loyal men, all preferably killers, to replace his wayward army friends and counter Nick Den’s threat to his survival. These Sonorans were ideal. But how to get them under his control? Raphael had always been enamored with Jack’s style and glamor. That would be a start. And of course, Jack’s horsemanship made him the equal of these Sonoraño horse thieves, whose exploits in the saddle were now legendary.
Jack asked Pio to arrange a meeting with El Huero Raphael, which occurred in a remote location outside San Luis. The Sonoran was accompanied by two comrades, Nieves Robles and Joaquin Carrillo, both hardened and impressive hombres. Raphael was honored that great Jaqui Powers sought him out, but he could hardly guess what Powers wished to say. Jack told him that Linares had revealed to him their plans. He said that they made basic sense but that the Sonoraños couldn't last for long without protection. Not only the Americans, but all the Barbareño dons would move against them out of fear that they'd attack the trail herds pushing up from Santa Barbara. The gang might flourish for a couple months, just as Senate's had down in Los Angeles, but would soon break up without some well-considered strategy.
That strategy was this. Jack would take responsibility for their protection, so long as they obeyed his rules. The first and most important was that no victim could survive as there could never be a living witness to their robberies. This, of course, was easily agreed to. More difficult was Jack's demand that he have full command. The gang would only move on targets he'd select, at locations where a corpse was most unlikely to be stumbled on. After a robbery and murder, each man would ride off swiftly in his own direction to a point so far away that, once observed there, it would be difficult to see how he’d been present at the crime. This rule depended much on Pio's knowledge of the landscape and the scores of secret pathways through the mountains where one might never pass another rider. And Jack assured them that his great prestige and popularity among the common Californians of the countryside would serve them crucially in this. These people, who so hated the invaders and distrusted their own dons, could be counted on for food and change of horses, so that a hundred miles of riding could be covered in a single day without the man or horse appearing jaded. If anything went wrong, and any crime discovered and a man arrested, Jack would take responsibility to get him off. No common Californian would convict against Jack’s word, and in San Luis Obispo County there were not enough Americans to fill a legal jury. Nor would they dare to risk a vigilance committee with such a tiny gringo population.
In exchange for his assistance, Jack asked for no more than an equal share of gain. His main reward would be that members of the gang would ride with him whenever he demanded and serve him as a bodyguard. He’d present them as retainers on his horse ranch, working with Linares, just as he had posed his Vets. This would give the Sonoraños cover, and their connection with Joaquin was not well understood so distant from Los Angeles. Jack had more demands, but didn’t make them yet until he saw how what he’d offered was received. Raphael was troubled at the prospect that he wouldn’t be the sole commander of a company that he’d assembled, and promised to get back to Jack after consulting all his men. Jack nonetheless felt confident, and could sense that Raphael was flattered that Jack needed him.
* * *
On the ride back home to Santa Barbara, Pio told Jack Powers he was certain that the gang would go along in spite of Raphael’s resentments. But there was something Jack must understand. All these men were hardened killers who’d been long commanded by Joaquin, a most bloodthirsty individual. While they might honor Jack for who he was and all that he might do for them, they’d never take his orders if he didn’t take the lead in killing victims. A man who couldn’t face another man and thrust a blade into his heart or blow his head off lacked courage meriting obedience. To take a life decisively was art, an act of theater. It was the measure of an hombre, and even more, the measure of a leader. If nothing else, it proved that he was capable of killing his own followers for insubordination, which was essential to gang discipline. In short, Jack had no chance unless he proved a ruthless executioner.
This sounded like the truth, and struck Jack hard so that he didn’t speak for many miles. He was thinking of the times he’d seen the Californians kill a grizzly bear that preyed upon their cattle. Four bold vaqueros on their mounts surrounded the ferocious monster and, snagging his four limbs with their reatas, backed their horses up to stretch him out. One rider then dismounted and unsheathed his giant blade, approached the snarling animal with four inch teeth and claws, and thrust directly in its heart. So, yes, Jack fully understood the drama and achievement of a proper killing and the honor that it brought a man. It wasn’t merely custom or the lack of firearms that made Latinos use the knife. It was that intimate, direct and personal connection between the slaughterer and victim. An act of intercourse that mingled cruelty with courage. Of personal engagement with Death.
Jack had never killed a man, but this alone was not the problem. The problem was his memory of what occurred so many years before at the Old Brewery, in the Five Points of New York. He’d faced, though still a boy, not just the opportunity but the responsibility to kill a man, at that man’s own request, but couldn’t do it. And so Jack feared that when the time came to perform his duty, he might freeze, as in a nightmare. He knew he had to prove it to himself that he could kill a man before he dared to take control of the Sonorans. But even if he’d try to pass this horrible and secret test, who could be his victim? Whose life could he possibly snuff out as a mere exercise in ruthlessness?
There was a Frenchman in Los Angeles who lived alone, the sole survivor of that privateering expedition to Sonora in which Francoise Barre had lost her husband. He’d dragged himself across the desert and arrived in Southern California at the point of death, consumed by months of hunger and exposure. Francoise had nursed him back to life but he was permanently shattered. He spoke only French, and thus could only talk to Madame Barre, and their communication was very limited because he’d lost most of his mind. He’d witnessed all his comrades drop before a firing squad while feigning death himself, and watched their corpses butchered in the subsequent barbaric fury. When Madame learned he had been a baker, she set him up with an assistant, a California woman, to bake bread loaves for a town that only ate tortillas, and he returned to something like a state of childhood at this simple, daily task. His only contact with the Angelenos was a weekly trip to Calle de los Negroes to gamble with his meager earnings, an activity not demanding conversation. The man was like a ghost and no one, with the possible exception of Francoise, would mourn or even notice his demise. He was the only one conceivable for Powers’ purposes.
Jack rode down to Los Angeles. His purpose was to test his willingness to kill, but he’d be also forced to satisfy the same requirements that he’d demanded of El Huero. Though the body of his victim would certainly be found, the crime must be committed where no witnesses might see or hear it happening. And Jack must stage his entry and his exit so that it was inconceivable to think he was involved.
Los Angeles in those days was pitch black at night, with the exception of the Calle de los Negroes. The Californios were used to it. They had little or no lamp oil but an unlimited amount of wax, rendered from the fat of their great cattle herds. The meager flicker of a candle in a window cast no light upon the street, and even this faint glow dissolved as one went southward on the two main corridors, out into the country. The Frenchman lived on Calle de Los Angeles, well below Commercial Street, nearly on the edge of town. A rear adobe wall enclosed a patio around a central outdoor oven, the classic beehive horno that he used for baking bread. An alley ran behind the wall, which could be scaled with little trouble.
Jack’s plan was very simple. He’d climb the wall to gain the patio, and then entice the Frenchman to come out in back by making scratching sounds like rats. There’d be no light but moonlight, although the moon was nearly full. The bigger trick was getting there and back, not only without being noticed, but also being seen at other places close to the same time. Of course, there wouldn’t be a single reason to suspect him. He’d have no motive, and no one would discover the dead body until morning at the earliest. And he would break into the Frenchman’s money box to stage it as a robbery.
* * *
At roughly midnight, Powers left his sala, telling his few guests he had to visit Calle de los Negroes on some business, but would soon return. He walked in that direction on Aliso Road, but when he reached the spacious corner of the Calle de Los Angeles, where it was much too dark to notice anyone, he headed south instead of north. He had a horse tied up and waiting, not his famous jet black mare or any of his own, and rode in almost total blackness to Commercial Street where he dismounted. Entering the alleyway, he peeked across the walls until he found the backyard with the horno and climbed over. There was a candle lit inside and he could see the Frenchman was still dressed, nursing a large brandy and slouching as though thoroughly intoxicated.
Jack picked up some pebbles and tossed them at the large adobe oven, making a soft rattle. It took a while before the Frenchman staggered out to check the premises. He brought the candle, lighting up his face more than the patio. Jack tossed more stones until the Frenchman fumbled toward the oven, held the candle up, and gazed around. Jack could see that he was very drunk, and suddenly stepped forward from the shadow of the wall, his knife already out and gleaming, silver light on steel.
The Frenchman looked at Jack and at his naked blade, but he made no reaction whatsoever. He was an empty shell. It was not that he was drunk, although he was, but rather he had long lost all emotion and was dead to fear or danger. He simply stared at Jack the way a man might gaze upon a lizard on a wall. Jack recognized at once the very circumstance he’d faced in the Old Brewery. Like his syphilitic gentleman, this Frenchman was not only broken past recovery, but welcomed the arrival of that angel who would terminate his miseries. The only difference was this man was conscious, although very, very drunk. It was difficult to tell in moonlight, but Jack believed he saw the tremor of a smile play on his lips. He made no effort to escape or to defend himself. His eyes moved lazily between Jack’s face and his enormous blade.
On the one hand, this was what Jack needed, as he was seeking to dispel the mental traces of his former cowardice. On the other, killing someone who desired death proved nothing of his will to slaughter an unwilling, frightened victim. This tension gave him pause, and just as at the Brewery, he was frozen and did nothing for a while. But then the opposite of what had happened then occurred . Rather than expiring as the Boston man had done, the Frenchman here grew bored with Powers’ Hamlet act of indecision, and turned around to walk indoors. In that moment of absurdity, Powers, struck by the impossibility of allowing him to live, stabbed him deep between the shoulders, and then again some more until quite certain he was dead. When he rolled the Frenchman over to confirm this, the victim’s face, so passive and relieved, convinced him that the man had only turned his back to break the spell that froze his murderer. He had effectively committed suicide, but Jack had killed his man.