The Network
Late in March 1874, the Vasquez gang moved to Greek George’s ranch in Rancho La Brea. For the next two months, Tiburcio shared a bed with Modesta Lopez, Cornelia’s sister, while the rest of the gang camped under the willows behind the cabin. The job of cooking for the gang, looking after them, and tending to Cornelia’s son, George Jr., fell to Modesta because Cornelia, close to giving birth, was confined to bed.
At their farm in the Antelope Valley, 50 miles north of Los Angeles, Tiburcio Vasquez’s niece Felicita faced her parents’ outrage upon their discovery that their beautiful 17-year-old daughter was pregnant. Their fury only grew when they learned that the baby’s father was their supposed “family friend,” Ricardo Cantua. It fell to Felicita’s parents to break the news to her: she had broken a taboo. The baby’s father was not Ricardo Cantua but her uncle, the bandit Tiburcio Vasquez.
Francisco and Maria Villa decided to take action. They sent word to Maria Villa’s cousin, Geronimo Lopez, in San Fernando about what Tiburcio had done. Geronimo activated the Californio network, and word went out that Tiburcio was not only wanted for murder but had committed the sin of incest, bringing shame upon his family. The activation had its desired effect. In the second week of May 1874, someone connected to the network informed Sheriff Billy Rowland that the bandit Vasquez was hiding out at Greek George’s ranch.
The Posse, Part 2
In the early morning of May 15, as soon as the sun broke through the fog, the eight men in Sheriff Rowland’s posse drove their horses down out of Nichols Canyon. They cut across the grassland until they found a dirt track and headed west toward Greek George’s ranch. Around mid-morning, they came across a delivery wagon on its way to the ranch. They commandeered it, along with the drivers, and hid themselves in the wagon’s payload, in what reporter George Beers remembered as “disagreeably close quarters.”
When the wagon rolled up to the cabin, Vasquez and one of his men were being served lunch by Cornelia’s sister, Modesta. Eight-year-old George Jr. was in the room with them, and his mother, Cornelia, was sequestered in her bed. The drivers were familiar to Vasquez, so there was no cause for alarm. According to Beers, the wagon stopped about 50 feet north of the adobe. The four men hidden in the payload rolled out of the back of the wagon and crawled through the tall mustard grass to the house.
George Beers separated from the group and circled around the house, where he spotted a couple of horses tied to the willows near the pool. He quietly climbed through a window into a small bedroom. After a quick search, he discovered a new Winchester rifle, a dagger, and a memorandum book hidden under a pillow. Leaving everything in place, he climbed back out the window and positioned himself at the corner of the house, keeping watch for anyone making a break for the horses.
In the kitchen, Modesta saw the raiders approaching the house and hurried to shut the door. As they pushed past her, Vasquez sprinted toward the small bedroom that Beers had just searched. A deputy fired at him and missed. In the bedroom, Vasquez dove through the window and hit the ground, coming face-to-face with George Beers, who was pointing a short-barreled rifle at him. Vasquez scrambled to his feet, but instead of trying to run, he charged at Beers.
“I raised my carbine and pulled the trigger,” Beers wrote, “intending to give him a line shot. Just as I pulled the trigger, he threw himself to the ground and raised both hands, exclaiming, ‘No shoot! Me go in!’” But before Beers could respond, another man from the posse fired his double-barrel shotgun at Vasquez, clipping his shoulder.
Vasquez was taken to jail in Los Angeles, where he recuperated from his wounds and waited to be transferred to San Jose for trial. According to Beers, people from across the countryside flooded into town, hoping to get a glimpse of the infamous bandit. Basking in his celebrity, Vasquez posed for a professional photographer, selling copies of his photos for 25 cents each. Later, he put himself on exhibit, charging a quarter for curiosity-seekers—most of them women—to file past him in his cell.
“Pronto’
In January 1875, Vasquez was found guilty and sentenced to death by hanging. The execution was to be held outdoors in San Jose and open to the public. Anticipating a big crowd, the sheriff issued tickets for the courtyard in front of the gallows. Special trains were routed to handle the influx of people arriving in San Jose for the hanging. Adding to the excitement, rumors spread that Mexico was sending troops to rescue the bandit-hero from execution.
An overflow crowd, mostly women, gathered around the gallows on March 19, 1875. At the appointed hour, Vasquez was brought out. Seeming to take it all in stride, he was led up the gallows stairs. When the hangman placed the noose around his neck, Vasquez uttered his last word: “Pronto.” The trap door opened beneath his feet, and he was gone. News reports of his hanging appeared in the New York World, the Philadelphia Inquirer, and all the California newspapers. A front-page headline in The New York Times read, “Execution of the Bandit Vasquez: Hanged at San Jose, Cal., Yesterday—No Attempt at Rescue—He Is Cool to the Last.”
The Informant
To prevent reprisals from Vasquez’s gang and loyalists, the sheriff’s informant’s identity was kept secret for decades. Eventually, it was revealed that Vasquez’s betrayer was his friend and host, Greek George Caralambo. His pregnant wife, Cornelia, a cousin of Vasquez’s pregnant niece, Felicita, pressured him to do it. The good news was there was a reward, according to George Beers’ reporting: “There were nine of us to divide it between, including the sheriff, and then the man who betrayed the robber made ten. We gave the latter his promised share.”