Tiburcio Vasquez
Tiburcio Vasquez (1839-1875) was the last of the Mexican banditos to terrorize California in the 1870s and 80s.
Along with fellow bandit leaders, Joaquin Murrieta and Juan Flores, Vasquez represents the turbulent and
often violent era after the United States took California from Mexico. It was a time of wrenching change,
lawlessness and injustice. Vasquez's legendary exploits brought him from his birthplace in Monterey, reputed
to be the son of a respected family, to Los Angeles where he was captured during a real wild west shootout.
He certainly looked the part of a 19th Century romantic anti-hero, with a handsome, square-jawed face and
dashing goatee. Fluent in both Spanish and English, he struck terror in the hearts of men and passion in the
breasts of his many female admirers.
In the telling, from contemporary newspaper accounts to dime novels, movies and a 1984 play by Luis Valdez,
Vasquez lived a life that survives as an amalgam of fact and fable. Although it is often hard to separate the
two, his exploits reveal larger truths about the transition from Mexican California to a primarily Anglo
American state. Displaced Californios needed an avenger to act out a response to their helplessness and
outrage. Anglos found a dangerous but gallant symbol of a society that they were destined to "civilize."
Ironically, in the end, Vasquez was romanticized by both; a tragic hero and worthy but doomed arch enemy.
Vasquez's first brush with the law, as a brash 14 year-old, took place in 1853. He was accused of taking part
in the murder of a local lawman, Constable William Hardmount during a Northern California fandango. With
a posse in pursuit, the young outlaw headed for the hills of the Coast Range. After a career in Northern
California as a bandit and horse thief, and three terms in San Quentin Prison during the 1850s, by 1863
Vasquez was a free man, hustling a living as a gambler. But by the 1870s he'd returned to a life of crime as
the legendary leader of a gang of desperados with a dual price on his head: $8,000 alive, $6,000 dead.
Remi Nadeau, in his book City-Makers, chronicled Vasquez's career with the kind of highly charged prose
that is common when describing the bandito's exploits: "Stage drivers over the Pacheco and San Benito
passes had known his gun muzzle; the storekeepers near Gilroy, Millerton, and Firebaugh's Ferry had
emptied their tills at his command. The previous August, at the head of a desperate band, he had sacked the
town of Tres Pinos, near Hollister, and galloped away, leaving three bodies lying in the street."
After it became too hot for him in Northern California, Vasquez headed south. Awaiting him, like a character
in a western movie, was a lawman destined to be his nemesis, Los Angeles County Sheriff William R.
Rowland. The son of pioneers, Rowland's father was a leader of an 1841 cross continent wagon train, the
Sheriff looked his part too. Photographed in a neat three-piece checked suit and small black cravat, Rowland
epitomized the new Anglo California. Backed by anxious businessmen and community leaders, he was
committed to making Tiburcio Vasquez the last of his breed.
After a string of robberies, rumors spread that the bandito and his gang were in the nearby hills (part of
which is now called, appropriately, Vasquez Rocks) with plans for a raid on Los Angeles. With his
multi-thousand-dollar bounty, it wasn't long before Vasquez had his Judas. His betrayer revealed that the
outlaw was hiding at a shack owned by a local character known as "Greek George." George had come to
California leading a pack train of camels which had been commissioned by the Union Army as the ideal means
of desert transport. The camels didn't agree and the experiment became a wonderful footnote to Southern
California history.
Greek George was away from home at 1:30 AM May 14, 1874 when a posse left downtown Los Angeles, headed
for the old camel driver's home near the present corner of Santa Monica Blvd. and Kings Road. Inside, sitting
at the kitchen table, Vasquez was alerted by sounds outside. When six armed men charged the house, the
outlaw dove out the kitchen window and ran for cover. He was stopped short by a shotgun blast fired by
Officer Frank Hartley. Vasquez was wounded but as wily as ever. Remi Nadeau picks up the action:
"'Don't shoot me,' he exclaimed, throwing up his hands. 'You've got me.' The rest of the posse closed in
when the outlaw faced them, blood running from wounds in his arms and leg.
'You boys have got me,' repeated the captive as they walked around the house; 'my name is Alejandro
Martinez.'
'I have had your photograph for years,' declared Undersheriff Johnson, 'and know you to be Tiburcio
Vasquez.' The last pitiful ruse had failed; the fox at last was snared."
Referring to his dual bounty, $8,000 alive or $6,000 dead, Vasquez cavalierly reminded his captors: "You get
two thousand dollars for being kind."
By the time the lawmen got back to Los Angeles with their prisoner, a large crowd had gathered outside the
City Courthouse on Spring Street. Sheriff Rowland gallantly showed up at the jail with a bottle of whiskey for
his legendary captive. Vasquez offered an unexpected toast: "To the President of the United States!"
Like many 20th Century counterparts, in his jail cell Vasquez became a media darling. According to Nadeau,
a local newspaper printed an ad declaring: "Vasquez says that Mendell Meyer has the Finest and Most
Complete Stock of Dry Goods and Clothing . . . " Flowers arrived from female admirers and "exclusive"
photos were hawked on city streets. It wasn't long before there was the equivalent of a made-for-TV movie: a
local company of thespians opened a play, "The Life of Vasquez," at the Merced Theater, around the corner
from the Plaza. Sheriff Rowland turned down Vasquez's request to play himself.
Nine days after his capture the fun came to an end. Vasquez was quietly transported up the coast aboard the
ocean-going steamer Senator to stand trial for the murders at Tres Pinos. He was tried, convicted and sent to
the gallows. While rumors spread that the Mexican government was sending troops to his rescue, admiring
crowds gathered to watch Vasquez's life come to a conclusion at the end of a rope. "His self-possession was
supreme," one observer wrote in admiration. He died "a man and a Californian."
Along with fellow bandit leaders, Joaquin Murrieta and Juan Flores, Vasquez represents the turbulent and
often violent era after the United States took California from Mexico. It was a time of wrenching change,
lawlessness and injustice. Vasquez's legendary exploits brought him from his birthplace in Monterey, reputed
to be the son of a respected family, to Los Angeles where he was captured during a real wild west shootout.
He certainly looked the part of a 19th Century romantic anti-hero, with a handsome, square-jawed face and
dashing goatee. Fluent in both Spanish and English, he struck terror in the hearts of men and passion in the
breasts of his many female admirers.
In the telling, from contemporary newspaper accounts to dime novels, movies and a 1984 play by Luis Valdez,
Vasquez lived a life that survives as an amalgam of fact and fable. Although it is often hard to separate the
two, his exploits reveal larger truths about the transition from Mexican California to a primarily Anglo
American state. Displaced Californios needed an avenger to act out a response to their helplessness and
outrage. Anglos found a dangerous but gallant symbol of a society that they were destined to "civilize."
Ironically, in the end, Vasquez was romanticized by both; a tragic hero and worthy but doomed arch enemy.
Vasquez's first brush with the law, as a brash 14 year-old, took place in 1853. He was accused of taking part
in the murder of a local lawman, Constable William Hardmount during a Northern California fandango. With
a posse in pursuit, the young outlaw headed for the hills of the Coast Range. After a career in Northern
California as a bandit and horse thief, and three terms in San Quentin Prison during the 1850s, by 1863
Vasquez was a free man, hustling a living as a gambler. But by the 1870s he'd returned to a life of crime as
the legendary leader of a gang of desperados with a dual price on his head: $8,000 alive, $6,000 dead.
Remi Nadeau, in his book City-Makers, chronicled Vasquez's career with the kind of highly charged prose
that is common when describing the bandito's exploits: "Stage drivers over the Pacheco and San Benito
passes had known his gun muzzle; the storekeepers near Gilroy, Millerton, and Firebaugh's Ferry had
emptied their tills at his command. The previous August, at the head of a desperate band, he had sacked the
town of Tres Pinos, near Hollister, and galloped away, leaving three bodies lying in the street."
After it became too hot for him in Northern California, Vasquez headed south. Awaiting him, like a character
in a western movie, was a lawman destined to be his nemesis, Los Angeles County Sheriff William R.
Rowland. The son of pioneers, Rowland's father was a leader of an 1841 cross continent wagon train, the
Sheriff looked his part too. Photographed in a neat three-piece checked suit and small black cravat, Rowland
epitomized the new Anglo California. Backed by anxious businessmen and community leaders, he was
committed to making Tiburcio Vasquez the last of his breed.
After a string of robberies, rumors spread that the bandito and his gang were in the nearby hills (part of
which is now called, appropriately, Vasquez Rocks) with plans for a raid on Los Angeles. With his
multi-thousand-dollar bounty, it wasn't long before Vasquez had his Judas. His betrayer revealed that the
outlaw was hiding at a shack owned by a local character known as "Greek George." George had come to
California leading a pack train of camels which had been commissioned by the Union Army as the ideal means
of desert transport. The camels didn't agree and the experiment became a wonderful footnote to Southern
California history.
Greek George was away from home at 1:30 AM May 14, 1874 when a posse left downtown Los Angeles, headed
for the old camel driver's home near the present corner of Santa Monica Blvd. and Kings Road. Inside, sitting
at the kitchen table, Vasquez was alerted by sounds outside. When six armed men charged the house, the
outlaw dove out the kitchen window and ran for cover. He was stopped short by a shotgun blast fired by
Officer Frank Hartley. Vasquez was wounded but as wily as ever. Remi Nadeau picks up the action:
"'Don't shoot me,' he exclaimed, throwing up his hands. 'You've got me.' The rest of the posse closed in
when the outlaw faced them, blood running from wounds in his arms and leg.
'You boys have got me,' repeated the captive as they walked around the house; 'my name is Alejandro
Martinez.'
'I have had your photograph for years,' declared Undersheriff Johnson, 'and know you to be Tiburcio
Vasquez.' The last pitiful ruse had failed; the fox at last was snared."
Referring to his dual bounty, $8,000 alive or $6,000 dead, Vasquez cavalierly reminded his captors: "You get
two thousand dollars for being kind."
By the time the lawmen got back to Los Angeles with their prisoner, a large crowd had gathered outside the
City Courthouse on Spring Street. Sheriff Rowland gallantly showed up at the jail with a bottle of whiskey for
his legendary captive. Vasquez offered an unexpected toast: "To the President of the United States!"
Like many 20th Century counterparts, in his jail cell Vasquez became a media darling. According to Nadeau,
a local newspaper printed an ad declaring: "Vasquez says that Mendell Meyer has the Finest and Most
Complete Stock of Dry Goods and Clothing . . . " Flowers arrived from female admirers and "exclusive"
photos were hawked on city streets. It wasn't long before there was the equivalent of a made-for-TV movie: a
local company of thespians opened a play, "The Life of Vasquez," at the Merced Theater, around the corner
from the Plaza. Sheriff Rowland turned down Vasquez's request to play himself.
Nine days after his capture the fun came to an end. Vasquez was quietly transported up the coast aboard the
ocean-going steamer Senator to stand trial for the murders at Tres Pinos. He was tried, convicted and sent to
the gallows. While rumors spread that the Mexican government was sending troops to his rescue, admiring
crowds gathered to watch Vasquez's life come to a conclusion at the end of a rope. "His self-possession was
supreme," one observer wrote in admiration. He died "a man and a Californian."