For those neophytes and rube Yuppies new to the valley, Tiburcio Vasquez was the legendary pistol fighter, road agent and womanizing bandito who terrorized California in the later part of the 19th century. He was known to take over entire towns, then leisurely enjoy a weekend of rape, looting and pillaging. Vasquez was famous for his élan and politeness while holding up civilians. Our famed county park to the northeast, Vasquez Rocks, is named after the thief. The eerie moonscape features made it a perfect place to hide.
One of poor Tibby’s downfalls was his sweet tooth for the ladies and he was captured while procreating with a señorita who held the unasked-for nickname of La Coneja. It means, “the rabbit” and no. It has nothing to do with her ability to wiggle her nose and hop about. Vasquez was shot in the butt and leg after diving from her bedroom window by a Los Angeles deputy.
Vasquez enjoyed a bit of a Robin Hood reputation. While briefly incarcerated in L.A., women sent him love letters, offering, if not to marry him, at least to share the steamy rituals of estrus. Guys sent him expensive liquor and cigars and an Angeleno playwright penned a production on TV’s life, throwing in the tempting morsel that he should be furloughed from prison to play himself on stage.
Sheriff Billy Rowland quietly cleared his throat and commented: “We have other plans for Tiburcio.”
Tibby was hanged. In San Jose. On January 23, 1873. Authorities blamed him for the looting of the small town of Tres Piños and subsequent murder of a local citizen earlier. His last word before the trap door opened? “Pronto.”
Pretty much, several hundred eye witnesses, writers, newspapermen and historians agree that’s how Tibby exited this oftentimes disappointing realm of humanity.
But no. This insufferable soccer mom adamantly knew otherwise. Vasquez was never hanged, she held with the moral outrage of Those In The Know. He was shot to death. She pretty much suggested the tour guides who be horsewhipped for spreading their vile disinformation.
In the last few days, several people have contacted me, asking, as if I were Solomon, to tell the truth. How DID TV kick the bucket?
I painstakingly try to keep local history as pure as the Talmud, best as I can. But if I were to run into the lady, I’d be surely tested to, if not pull her leg, at least caress it.
Metaphorically, of course.
“Paper cut,” I might tell this mystery mom, pulling my Stetson back and staring off toward a distant horizon to give my story credence. “Tiburcio was sending money back to his mother, in Hawaii — did you know he invented the modern surf board? — and lightly slit his left index finger. It got infected and blooey. Before you know it, it swelled up to the size of a kosher salami, a blood clot raced to his heart and Tiburcio Vasquez imploded.”
I sort of like the paper cut angle because I can see Tibby with a swollen finger on his gun hand. It grew so big, one day, he was in a showdown in front of the saloon and he couldn’t stick it in the proper place to pull the trigger. Got shot 46 times. On the bright side, the swelling went down after that.
Then there’s cramps angle.
“Tiburcio Vasquez had three large meatball sandwiches, a 19th century Mexican delicacy, and went swimming exactly 11 minutes after the swallowing the last morsel. Drowned in just 18 inches of water.”
Or how about Frank Ferry’s great, great, great grandfather sat on him? Or, better, Frank Ferry’s great, great, great grandfather mistook Tiburcio for a meatball sandwich and ate him?
I suppose if I were to spin an improper tall tale about the final days of our legendary strongarm artist, I might have to include the one about Tibby attending adult education classes at Bowman Honor Academy in the 1870s. Former COC basketball coach Lee Smelser was warden back then and principal of the convict adult school. Lee was trying to give Tiburcio a lesson in California history and he accidentally bored the poor guy to death.
If only I were there when the indignant and maternal expert on things local insisted Tibby wasn’t hanged.
“How did Tiburcio Vasquez REALLY die?” I’d repeat the yuppie mother’s question right back to her. “FSC — the dreaded Frontier Spontaneous Combustion.”
I’d pay money to see THAT at the upcoming Cowboy Fest (www.cowboyfest.org to order tickets, by the way.)
Or — “He was really, really, really lactose intolerant and accidentally drank some pull-dated prairie milk.”
Or — “He had chronic flat feet. Eventually, they took over his entire body so there was no more Tiburcio. Just these amazingly huge size 316 flat feet resting in the shade of his sombrero.”
Or — “He was scouting an approaching posse at the tallest point of Vasquez Rocks when he slipped, fell 3,416 feet straight down and landed butt-first on a big cactus.”
Of course, if you’re leading tours at Vasquez Rocks, you can’t say “butt.” You’d have to say, “rectum.”
Would you care to say it with me, audience?
“‘ Rectum?’ PERT NEAR KILLED HIM!!”
John Boston has earned 119 major awards for writing stuff. Besides The Mighty West Ranch Beacon, his work appears in the prestigious thebostonreport.net just about every darn day. His commentaries represent his own opinions and not necessarily the views of any organization he may be affiliated with or those of the West Ranch Beacon. Read Boston’s daily blog, his Daily English Muffins, the Adventures of Job Hunter and more of John Boston’s award-winning commentary on thebostonreport.net
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