Amador Ledger, 14 January 1910

RANCHERIA MASSACRE RECALLED
True Story of This Great Tragedy

In the fall of 1855 a young Mexican, not more than 16 years of age, approached Joe Gilbert of Drytown and said. "I am the friend of the Americans and I have something to tell you of vital importance to you and your, countrymen. All I ask is your sacred promise as a friend, as I know you are, to keep my secret. If my name is known in this connection in any manner with this matter my life would pay the forfeit."

Gilbert, who talked the Spanish language very well, assured the boy that his name should not be used and be faithfully protected.

Then, "said the boy." prepare to protect yourself and your people, for I overheard some Mexcans talking last night, and to-morrow night they intend to murder and rob the people of this town."

With an assurance to the boy not to use his name in any manner in divulging of the secret of murdering and sacking of the town, which would certainly leave much blood in its trail, Gilbert with an adio left the faithful young Mexican to go and confer with his fellow townsmen. Among the most prominent of them was a man by the name of Bell — a half blood Cherokee — who then was the proprietor of the hotel now owned and run by Florence Giannini. Gilbert knew Bell to be a fearless man— a gun-fighter as we now denominate them — ready to face any crisis in any way or any manner. Bell had more than once tracked Mexican cut-throats to their lair and brought them up to face the law. They were afraid of him. Bell listened to the recital of Gilbert telling of the contemplated racking, murdering and robbing of the people of Drytown. The ' keen, piercing hawk eyes of the Cherokee flashed fire at Gilbert's recital.

"Intend to murder and rob the people of this place, do they? If they do there will be many a dead Mexican to tell the tale, for I'll crack more than one Mexican's skull, with my revolver, and there is more than one man here besides me that will do the same. "

As he finished he whirled on his heel, followed by Gilbert. The two sought hastily the men they knew could be faith. fully relied on for pluck and determination, and the town was soon armed to the teeth for the coming combat.

At that time the street leading at right angles from the main 'street stretching out toward Jackson, and heading toward where Plymouth now stands, was almost solidly blocked with Mexican houses. Among the most prominent therein was a dance house thronged by Mexican senoritas— the very hell hole of the place in general. It was 8 o'clock and the pale moon in its first quarter was dropping stolidly behind the dense fringes of the trees on the hill in the west. Twenty well armed men had gathered at the dance house, for it was here the faithful young Mexican had told Gilbert they would be first seen. A few took a drink at the bar to ward off suspicion that their appearance was anything else than social. As they sat waiting on the long benches on the outside with keen expectancy, shadows played in effigy before their bewildered senses. Each shadow seemed to rise in phantasm in mockery of murder, but still no Mexicans came. Suddenly the clatter of horses' hoofs struck audibly upon the ear. Nearer and clearer came the tread of the horses. As the horseman approached the jingling of the great spurs of which all Mexicans took pride, told that the horsemen were only a few yards away. Instinctively each man drew his hand close to his revolver that hung in the holster at his side. A moment more and 18 well armed Mexicans, with their broad sombreros hiding their swarthy faces from the glinting moonlight halted before the door. Not a word was spoken by either party, but the keen treacherous eyes of the murderous throng took in the situation. Instantly almost the leader of the gang gave the reins on his horse a twitch, sank the rowels of his spurs into his flanks and rode off toward the great white Catholic church that stood on the hillside a little east or south of this place, and ' on a direct line of Lower Rancheria. In unison each horseman followed his leader—a renegade white man by the name of Porter. A stalwart negro, black as ebony, rode by his side. The others, low-browed treacherous looking Mexicans, characteristic, of the peonage type of mendicants that are so prevalent in old Mexico. In council the Americans concluded they were only making away in order to attack the place from a different standpoint. They watched the murderous band of horsemen

until darkness swallowed them up in its Intensity. The Americans walked briskly now to the main street of the town. They had barely arrived there when bang! bang! bang! came the report of the revolver.

"They are murdering the people of Rancheria shouted a dozen voices excitedly, "Let us go to their rescue"

"No," said Bell, "for their bloody deed will be over before we can reach them, besides they might wheel round If we leave this place unprotected and murder our own women and children." In one sense Bell was right, for a few minutes only had left devastation and much blood in the little hamlet of Rancheria.

Old man Dynan, father of John Dynan now of Amador City, was shot through the fleshy part of the arm. He was a quick-witted man, and seeing he had but one chance for his life, fell backward behind the warming stove. As he did so he threw his arm across his breast. The blood spurted out from the pistol shot and saturated his entire bosom with blood. Porter approached him, held for an instant - his cocked pistol upon his breast, and said, "There is no use to waste another shot on him, for he is deader than hell." All this time, Dynan lay without a quiver or a motion of any kind. His nerve had thwarted the murderers and saved his life.- His wife, who attempted to escape by flight, was shot dead as she sprang through the window and fell a lifeless corpse on the outside. Her little tot of a girl, 2 or 3 years old was thrown bodily through the window, breaking the sash and falling in a heap just beyond the sill. She had no bones broken, and she is now the wife of Charlie Enns, now of Fresno, who is well known to old residents of Amador City. A half dozen men lay weltering in their own gore— among them was Dynan 's partner, who was shot dead as he raised up behind the bar with a pistol in hand to defend himself. Morse Taylor, hemmed in, fled upstairs pursued by a Mexican who fired half a dozen shot at him. He jumped out of a window twenty feet from the ground and was pursued by Mexicans on the outside. He fled up the old road leading to Amador, and which now is known as Culberts grade. Shot after shot ploughed the dirt around him. In his flight he passed an Indian coming to the town. In the darkness they took the Indian for Taylor. The Mexican leveled his pistol and shot the Indian dead. Taylor escaped, but the shot that killed the Indian brought destruction to many a Mexican.

A few days later the Indians were invited to help hunt the murderers down. But Indian-like they made no fins distinction between Mexicans. They were supposed to arrest and bring them in for the law to deal with. If they told a Mexican to halt, it only gave "Mr lngun" a better shot at him, if he didn't they shot him on the "wing."

It was no uncommon occurrence the following season to find the bones of supposed Mexicans whitening under the rays of noonday's sun. The vengeance of the Indian had overtaken no doubt many an innocent Mexican that had nothing whatever to do with the massacre.

After the murderers had completed their slaughter they built a fire in the center of the street with dry good box for fuel. The lurid glare of the flames shot its light across the street and upon the ghastly scenes of carnage and blood within. A half hour only elapsed when all their crime was completed. The murderous band then mounted their horses and rode off into the deep shadow of the night. 

CHAS S. BELL.