Another curve loomed, this one to the right. We swung into it at full gallop when, directly in front of me, square in the middle of the road and going way slower than Rojo, I saw Dancy Bellotti’s buggy. I knew I couldn’t slow Rojo down at all. Instead I had to let him run, trusting him to find the best way past the slow moving shay. When I got closer she looked back at me with an ugly sneer, grabbed a buggy whip and cracked it over Rojo’s head. The chestnut shied back and slowed to a trot.
I kicked his flanks. “Go Rojo, go fast,” I yelled as loud as I could and kicked again. He sped up but once more the whip came out. This time I pulled the reins to the right and rode close to the edge of the trail where the road dropped off into the pines. Dancy turned the buggy to block my way and again Rojo slowed.
But I yanked the reins left. Rojo charged back along the other side of the buggy. Dancy still had the quirt in her hand and this time she swung at me. It cracked beside my right ear, snapping loud and leaving a ringing in my head. By now the stallion ran all out but Rojo still pulled up even with him. The whip cracked across my back. I screamed and dared a quick glance behind me. Romy Manuel rode right on Rojo’s tail, still holding the shotgun and coming fast.
Dancy Bellotti raised the whip once more. Somehow my bloody, useless right arm shot up to block the blow. The leather thong at the end of the lash wrapped around my forearm and I managed to grab it and hold on. The dark haired Jezebel pulled with all the strength she had, determined to slow me up. Yet in spite of the searing pain in my arm I held on with every bit of grit I had. Rojo pulled ahead of the stallion now and Dancy Bellotti had to latch onto one of the iron struts that held up the buggy top to keep from being yanked out.
Rojo kept running strong and he tugged her up from her seat. With one hand on the strut and one on the whip she teetered at the side of the buggy, ready to fall out. Stubborn and stupid, she refused to let go of either one, so I wrapped the reins around my saddle horn, grabbed the whip with my left hand and jerked it as hard as I could. Dancy screamed like a cornered bobcat, and tumbled head over heels from the buggy slamming face first onto the hard clay of the road right in front of Romy Manuel and slowing the pinto down. I unwound the whip from my shot-up right arm and dropped it. Meanwhile the buggy bounced wildly behind the stallion, and Rojo easily pulled ahead of him. The trail in front of me was clear.
I heard her yelling and had to look, but the buggy blocked her from view. When the pinto raced past the stallion he’d lost ground back to about the same ten lengths he’d been behind earlier. I let out a long sigh. The scrape with Dancy Bellotti had been close, way too close. Still I didn’t feel one bit bad for having dumped a woman onto the road like I did. An ungentlemanly thing to do for sure, but she would’ve got me killed if Romy caught up, and he almost did. Heck, she’s lucky the fall didn’t break her rotten neck.
The river was close and the road swerved sharply back and forth here. I let Rojo run free, trusting him to keep his footing when the trail came close to the low lying pines on the right. One slip and both of us could tumble off the road. I knew that a fall might kill me outright, but if I reined in Rojo and took the turns at an easier pace Romy Manuel could catch me. That would mean an even more painful death.
I stole another glance over my shoulder. The pinto stayed put at ten lengths behind, and Romy Manuel still had the scattergun in his hand. Not far ahead the road would make a hard turn left into town, but to the right a smaller horse path led to the ford across the American River. There Bug Riddle waited on top of the ridge with his Hawken rifle. I pulled Rojo hard onto the horse path, wondering if the old man would even recognize me. Would he know Romy Manuel trailed me? And even if he did, it was a long, hard shot all the way from the top of the ravine to the river. Could he make that shot? I had to hope so. If he didn’t my goose was cooked.
Rojo found the path without losing a step, hooves thundering, pounding out a spellbinding beat that throbbed in my head. His front feet hit the ground one right after the other, then the back ones did the same thing. The steady rhythm pulsed through my body over and over again, and, together with the easy sway of Rojo’s back, I felt a part of him. Rojo and I were one.
I relaxed into the smooth, easy movements a rider must make on a fast horse. Even my breathing worked in harmony with Rojo’s gait. Breathe in. I’m a man now. Breathe out. I can do this. My fear melted away, like it had in the forest. I felt safe—until I looked back.
“Go Rojo!” I yelled. I’d relaxed way too much. Romy Manuel had caught up.
I could see the ford now. It was close. I knew that as soon I rode into the water Rojo would slow down. He had to. No horse can cross a river this deep at anything other than a walk. All Romy Manuel had to do was shoot me in the back. Fear crowded my mind again. Bug Riddle was my only chance now. But what if the old man had fallen asleep, or couldn’t decide if it really was Romy Manuel behind me, or maybe he’d just out and out miss the shot. Bug won that rifle a long time ago. Maybe his eyes were gone. Maybe he’d lost his touch.
“Oh Lord, please!” I cried, thinking how much I wanted to see Lacey again.
But my path was set. I had no choice. I pulled Rojo to the left and splashed into the river. He slowed to a walk almost at once but plowed on step by step toward the north bank. I waved wildly hoping Bug would see me. It was all I could do to save myself, but would Bug even recognize me without the sombrero? My life was in his hands now—or God’s.
I scanned the ridge, looking for him, silently praying for all the help I could get.
“Gringo!” A shiver ran down my back. Romy Manuel called, his voice full of hate.
I spun in the saddle. He sat on the pinto at the water’s edge, blood oozing through the petticoat, the shotgun pointed at the sky, his finger on the trigger, ready to shoot.
There was nothing I could do. I was helpless, a sitting duck in the river and Romy knew it. My thoughts went back to Lacey. “I love you.” I whispered. I turned Rojo around in the middle of the stream. I didn’t want to be shot in the back. I wanted to face my fate head on.
“You, a niño, a filthy gringo, have killed me,” he snarled. “But you will get to hell before I do.” Gut shot and bleeding bad he was right. He’d die soon, but I’d die first.
The scattergun hammer clicked loud. I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to know when it would happen.
The shotgun boomed.
“Oh God, I’m dead.” I screamed.
Another shot echoed across the river.
Buckshot splattered like hail in the water all around me. Holy Moses, I thought. My eyes popped opened in time to see Romy Manuel topple from the pinto and plop flat on his back like a hundred pound sack of oats that tumbled off a wagon.
I looked back up the hill and it sure seemed like I heard Bug Riddle shout, “The devil’s dead.” He stood up and pumped the Hawken high over his head. I waved. Bug had done it. He’d saved my bacon and I was awful grateful to him. It dawned on me exactly how close I’d really come to buying the farm. The tremble in my left hand suddenly swept up my arm and shook my whole body, and as fast as it had come over me the shaking stopped.
I looked back toward the south shore and stroked the chestnut’s neck. “I’m sorry, Rojo, but we got to go back,” I said. Obligingly he plowed through the current to the bank. I slid out of the saddle and went over to the body of Romy Manuel. He didn’t look so fearsome with a hole in the middle of his forehead and his blood, brains and hair splattered all over the ground.
I pulled my buck knife out of my pocket and knelt down. Bug Riddle had saved my life and earlier today I’d made him a promise. Now there was nothing on God’s green earth that could keep me from bringing the devil’s red shirt to him. I slashed off the petticoat, hacked off the buttons on the front, then rolled Romy over and ripped the shirt from his back.
It came to me that Bug must have hit him while the shotgun pointed straight up in the air, right after he’d cocked it. That’s why the shot fell all around me like it had, but I
sure couldn’t figure why I heard the shogun fire before Bug’s rifle did, almost like the rifle ball went faster than the sound of the gun.
I stuffed Romy’s shirt into a saddlebag, and started to climb on Rojo when a man riding another pinto splashed into the river from the north side. He looked like the same man Bug had almost shot the first day I got to his camp, the guy with the guitar. He rode past me with only a tug at the brim of his black hat and stopped beside Romy Manuel, hopped to the ground, kicked the body over with his boot and growled a couple of words in Mexican that I couldn’t understand. He made the sign of the cross and spit into the face of Romy Manuel.
With a shake of his head he turned back to me. “He was my countryman, but still he was a bad man, a stinking coyote,” he said with a sneer. “No one will weep for him.”
He went to Romy’s pinto and took the reins. “A fine horse, si?” he asked, and without waiting for my answer he tied him to Rojo’s saddle. “He is yours, senor,” he went on. “You are the winner. You have lived. El Diablo is dead.” He noticed Romy’s shotgun lying on the ground. He picked it up and stuffed it into Rojo’s scabbard without a word then walked back to his own horse, pulled the guitar from his back and leaped into the saddle.
“Adios, Senor,” he cried and turned the pinto toward Coloma. “Vaya con Dios,” he yelled over his shoulder and rode away. Soon I could hear him singing the same song I’d heard last night right before I fell asleep, the sad one about the man and his girl, Carmelita.
“Vaya con Dios,” I mumbled, mostly to myself, remembering how God really must have been with me today. I looked up to the sky. “Thank you, sir,” I said softly. There wasn’t any use to explain it all. God should know what the thanks were for. Still, I was thinking hard about how lucky I’d been to get away from Romy Manuel in the first place, and then how I’d run like a scared dog, and if it hadn’t been for Bug Riddle I’d be stone dead right now. When it came right down to it I was nothing more than a yellow coward and didn’t deserve to live. God, I felt rotten.
Two vultures circled slowly over the river valley. I ignored them. They were welcome to whatever was left of Romy Manuel.
9
I’d spent all morning with the Sheriff and a whole bunch of other men. They wanted to know everything that happened, where it happened, why it happened. It all never seemed to end. But back where I first saw Romy Manuel get out of Dancy Bellotti’s buggy I’d found my sombrero and the shotgun I’d dropped.
Now I’d pulled the wide-brimmed Mexican hat low again so people would have a hard time seeing the pounding I took yesterday. One eye had already swollen shut and the other came darn close. Ugly scabs had formed on my lips and my whole face had puffed up like a loaf of fresh baked bread and was covered in big purple welts. I felt awful and knew I looked it.
Web Lawson acted real proud of how I’d managed to stand up to a beating from a thug like Romy Manuel and still have enough sense left to get away and lead him straight into Bug Riddle’s gun sight. He was wrong. I hadn’t been man enough to do the job I set out to do and only my good luck, or a whole lot of help from above, allowed me to live at all.
And at first Eban had been as mad as I’d ever seen him, but he’d cooled down some now. Still, Eban was right. Deep down I knew it. After all, nothing worked like I’d planned—not by a long shot. Romy Manuel could have killed me outright back along the road. I got a chance to get away only because Romy wanted to toy with me and make me suffer more. And I ran like a scared rabbit with a big dog on his tail.
When we got near Hangtown I’d slowed Rojo down some to let Eban and Major Lawson ride ahead, figuring that since most of the men here knew Eban real good they’d be more likely to notice the beat up fellow in the Mexican sombrero riding Maggie’s horse if I rode with them. There ain’t no denying I fretted something awful about how folks would react to my looks, and why I looked this way. Everybody around was bound to find out what a yellow coward I really am, but I stewed most over how Lacey would feel about me now.
I rode slow up Hangtown’s Main Street, my head down, back slumped. A crowd of fresh-off-the-boat miners milled about outside the Round Tent Saloon, yelling, arguing, a lot of them already drunk. I could hear bits and snips of what they were saying. The name Reid Harrison came up a lot, usually with a curse and followed by a nasty comment about the mining cooperative. These men were mad, most just realizing how much money they had been bilked out of by Romy Manuel and his cohorts.
It was a sad thing. Mining was hard work, but what knocked me for a loop was that these men never even had the foggiest notion that the mining cooperative had been lying to them from day one. Those crooks had stuffed their own pockets with a fat share of the miner’s hard earned gold while telling folks they put that money into new finding new claims and prospecting new territory in order to make the miners even more money.
Bags of gold had been crammed in every nook and cranny in Reid Harrison and Frank Barney’s offices. Romy Manuel had his share stashed away with his Jezebel, Dancy Bellotti. It added up to one tidy sum—more than any reasonable miner could spend in a hundred years of high-toned living, even in a rich city like New York—or so folks said.
After I passed the crowd I relaxed some. But as much as I didn’t want anybody in town to see me all beat up like this, I still had to face Lacey and pretty darn soon. Eban and the Major already rode across the log bridge. I’d gone out and found Lacey’s pa like she wanted, and maybe that would make her happy, but she’d likely take one look at my ugly mug and realize what a lily-livered chicken I really am. She’d be right too. The thought scared me almost as much as facing Romy Manuel had.
When I rode up to the bridge I could see her in her yellow dress, racing down the steps from the cabin, her blonde pigtails flapping as she turned and ran downhill as fast as she could. “Papa! Papa,” she yelled, loud and happy.
She wanted her Papa now, I thought. Doesn’t she want to see me?
“Lacey, honey, I’m so glad you’re safe,” the Major whooped. He reached down and scooped her up onto the pinto I’d gotten from Romy Manuel.
And firmly wrapped in her Papa’s arms, her face peering over his shoulder, she noticed me for the first time. Her jaw dropped like a rock. My one good eye locked onto her. I knew she saw what I looked like. How could she not see the black, swollen eyes, the purple scabs, and the yellow steak down my back? The surprise on her face melted in a heartbeat, pushed away by a frown that showed her utter disgust. I ducked my head behind the brim of my hat, yanked Rojo around and tore back toward the cafe.
“Tom,” she yelled. “Come back.”
But I ignored her. Her face held all the scorn, shock and pure horror of seeing a chicken-hearted wimp whose face had been destroyed by a miserable varmint. She had her Papa back now. She had no use for me anymore. I understood. I wasn’t stupid—just gutless. Still, it hurt. It hurt bad.
I tied the chestnut to the rail in front of the cafe and went to the door. It was latched from the inside, the closed sign hanging behind the glass. Eban rode up and stopped beside Rojo.
“Tom, are you all right?” he asked and I could hear the worry in his voice. I didn’t know how to answer. I wasn’t all right. Maybe I’d never be all right.
“I’m fine,” I lied. Lying was easy now, easier than telling Eban the truth, easier than admitting what a chicken-hearted milksop I really am.
“Maggie and Lacey want to see you, son. Why don’t you—?”
“Nobody wants to see me!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. Didn’t Eban understand? Nobody would want to see me looking like this. And I sure didn’t want either of them staring at my ruined face. The memory of Lacey as she gawked at me over her Papa’s shoulder slapped me in the chin again. No! Lacey sure as heck didn’t want to see me.
Eban shrugged. “Well, I’ll make some excuse for you. Why don’t you get some rest,” he said real gentle and reached over and grabbed Rojo’s reins. “I’ll take your horse down to the stable for you.”
> Dang, I thought. I realized I’d been so wrapped up in my own shortcomings that I’d already forgotten all about poor Rojo and likely would have left him tied to the rail all night, unfed and uncared for. It was a terrible way to treat an animal, and after Rojo saved my life just yesterday it made what I almost did doubly bad. I felt more rotten now than I had before. “Thanks, Eban,” I said and this time I told the truth.
He turned the mustang and started toward the stable with Rojo right behind him. “Good night, son,” he called back.
I felt alone. I’d asked for it yet now the thought of being by myself bothered me. It wasn’t that I was lonely but more that I needed someone to tell me I wasn’t ugly, that what I’d done was worth the pounding I took and that I really wasn’t a yellow-bellied mouse. I needed Lacey but she was with her Papa, and like a fool I’d just refused to go and see her. With my head hung low I shuffled to the back door of the cafe.
##
A bright light shone in my face, so bright I couldn’t see.
“Tom! Tom can you hear me?” Lacey called me. I could hear her easy but she stood far away on top of a cliff, hidden somewhere in the glare. To get to her I had to climb the rocky face of the bluff. I had no choice. I pulled my way up hand over hand. When I looked down a river of flame blazed below me with smoke and steam billowing up into the gulch. One slip and I would tumble into the inferno and burn to a crisp in no time.
“Tom! Tom Marsh, you answer me!” Lacey yelled again, loud and angry.
I tried to call to her but couldn’t say a word. My jaw hurt. My whole face hurt. I climbed faster. Almost at the top a hand grabbed my leg and yanked. Someone wanted to drag me off the cliff, to pull me into the fire. I looked down, straight at Romy Manuel, a bloody hole in the middle of his forehead. With an evil laugh the killer tugged me toward the fires of hell.
Into the face of the devil: A love story from the California gold rush Page 18