If they didn’t sign something, the war might flare back up. Lately, though, the negotiators at the Guadalupe-Hidalgo villa looked to be putting on steam again. Every Sabbath an announcement was expected, and every Sabbath, none came. The war-call it Mexican, call it American, or call it what they all are, a Real Estate War-the war was over, but the peace talks in Mexico City were taking forever. He assumed I was on a fresh story, and so I was.Īll the while, I sought out whatever news came to hand. But I’d work for him at half-wages if he’d keep it off the books. He wouldn’t have to lie, I was very specific about that. He’s a good guy-a little soft, maybe, but honest. He was on his way up the trail as foreman to a pack of Mormons, aiming to build Sutter his first sawmill that wouldn’t fall over if you pissed on it. Once we pulled in, who do I see but Jim Marshall, the best carpenter in Frémont’s army. On my way, I met a talkative Mexican-begging your pardon-who’d heard that there was gold up below Tahoe, but that Sutter’s marshal hadn’t got around to checking it out yet. Last month I figured I’d go and see for myself. I rode south almost to Placerita to check out the gold strike from ’42, but it was pretty well played out.Īll the time I kept hearing about this fellow Sutter, a Swiss colonel who’d gone up the Americano from Yerba Buena and set himself up king of the Sacramento. So I knocked around California for a few months, chasing down one rumor after another. If I didn’t get rich, at least I’d get a better story. So I stuffed my Frémont notes into my saddlebag, waited till lights-out, lammed out of that man’s army and made for the mountains. I was mulling the choice when I heard a story from an old Miwok woman about gold in the foothills of the Sierra. Greeley sent word I was to file immediately or not bother coming back. A year ago I was traveling with Frémont’s army, supposedly writing a profile of him for the Tribune.īoy, that man knew how to treat a reporter. “Last week,” he began, sleep forgotten, warming to the story as if from memory, growing more loquacious the while, “for all anybody knew I could’ve been dead a year.
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