A Truthful Woman in Southern California | Page 9

received. Coming from Connecticut to California in 1851, he
soon made a small fortune in mining, buying and selling gold-dust, and
providing the diggers with ice and water for their work. He rode over

the country in those lawless times selling the precious dust disguised as
a poverty-stricken good-for-naught, with trusty revolver always in his
right hand on the pommel of the saddle--the handsome green saddle
covered with an old potato sack. In this way he evaded the very men
who had been on his track for weeks. Once he came near capture. He
passed a bad-looking lot of horsemen, one of whom had a deep red scar
the whole length of his cheek. He got by safely, but one, looking round,
exclaimed, "My God! That's Horton! I see the green saddle." And back
they dashed to kill him and gain his treasure, but he escaped into a
cañon, and they lost their one chance.
At another time he had $3500 in gold in his belt, and at a tavern of poor
repute he could hear through cracks in the floor of his bedroom the
gamblers below laughing about the old greenhorn above who had his
supper of mush and milk and had asked for a lock on his door.
Returning East via Panama in 1856, he proved himself a hero and a
soldier during the terrible riot there. The natives, angry because they
had lost the money they used to make in transporting passengers,
attacked the foreigners, killing and plundering all who came in their
way, the police turning traitors and aiding them. The hotel was attacked,
and among all the passengers only three were armed. Mr. Horton and
these two young men stood at the top of the stairs and shot all who tried
to get nearer. When they fell back eight rioters were dead and others
wounded. Then Mr. Horton formed the two hundred passengers in
order and marched them off to a lighter, and put them aboard the
steamer. About half this number wanted to go on to San Francisco, but
had lost all their money and baggage. Mr. Ralston and Mr. Horton
helped many to pay their passage, but not one person was ever heard of
again, not one cent was returned, not even one word of gratitude or
good intentions.
Up to the period which is known as the boom of 1870-71, the history of
San Diego was so interwoven and closely connected with the life of Mr.
Horton that the story of one is inseparable from that of the other.
When Mr. Horton came from San Francisco to see the wonderful
harbor described by friends, there was nothing there but two old

buildings, the barren hillsides, and the sheep pastures.
His gifts to the city and to individuals amount to a present valuation of
over a million of dollars. Of the nine hundred acres of land which he
originally bought (a part of the Mexican grant) at twenty-seven cents an
acre, he owns but little.
But it is to his common sense, foresight, and business ability that the
present city owes much of its success; and it is interesting to hear him
tell of exciting adventures in "Poker Flat," and other places which Bret
Harte has worked up so successfully.
Lieut. George H. Derby is amusingly associated with "Old Town," the
former San Diego, three miles from the present city. He had offended
Jefferson Davis, then Secretary of War, by his irreverent wit, and was
punished by exile to this then almost unknown region, which he called
"Sandy Ague," chiefly inhabited by the flea, the horned toad, and the
rattlesnake. Mr. Ames, of the Herald, a democratic paper, asked Derby,
a stanch whig, to occupy the editorial chair during a brief absence. He
did so, changing its politics at once, and furnishing funny articles
which later appeared as "Phoenixiana," and ranked him with Artemus
Ward as a genuine American humorist. Here is his closing paragraph
after those preposterous somersaults and daring pranks as editor pro
tem:
"Very little news will be found in the Herald this week; the fact is,
there never is much news in it, and it is very well that it is so; the
climate here is so delightful that residents in the enjoyment of their
dolce far niente care very little about what is going on elsewhere, and
residents of other places care very little about what is going on in San
Diego, so all parties are likely to be gratified with the little paper, 'and
long may it wave.'"
The present city has eighteen thousand inhabitants, twenty-three church
organizations, remarkably fine schools, a handsome opera-house, broad
asphalt pavements, electric lights, electric and cable cars,--a compact,
well-built city, from the fine homes on the Heights to the business
portion near the