Into the face of the devil: A love story from the California gold rush

by John Rose Putnam

  I’d never even talked much to a girl like I’d done with Lacey, and now she bawled so hard my new shirt already soaked through. I didn’t want her to cry, but I didn’t know what to do about it so I put my hand on her shoulder. That brought the throbbing back to my head but I gritted my teeth and tried to bear it like a man.

  “Come on, Lacey. It ain’t your fault. Jeremiah’s been drinking too much. He ain’t right in the head, Eban says.” I patted her shoulder, and felt awful awkward doing it.

  “No! It is my fault. I flirted with everybody that day, hoping my Papa would hear where I am. Now people are trying to kill you because of me. Oh, I’m so stupid,” she said, her words still broken by her sniffles.

  It seemed that the harder Lacey cried the more my head hurt. I liked the way she laid across me on the cot, I liked it a lot, but it would be so much better if the pounding stopped. “Lacey, stop crying!” I moaned. “My head’s killing me.” Before I’d thought it over I’d said it. It simply slipped out of my mouth.

  “Oh no!” Her head popped up and she looked at me. Tears streaked down her cheeks from red, puffy eyes, her mouth twisted into a serious frown. “I’m such a mess,” she said. “Somebody’s trying to shoot you and all I can do is blubber like baby Josie.”

  But as soon as she pulled away and I couldn’t feel her across me anymore, I kicked myself for what I’d said. More than anything—more than my aching head, or the possibility that Jeremiah Wiggins would take another shot at me or whatever evil skullduggery Reid Harrison, Frank Barney and the man in the red shirt might cook up—I wanted Lacey’s warm body back against mine. I reached up with my left hand, and with one hand now on each shoulder, gently pulled her to me.

  As my eyes locked into hers the crying stopped. I breathed fast, like a colt after a sprint. Her flowery scent excited me like it had that first day. I closed my eyes and our lips met. Her mouth opened. My tongue found hers. A new throbbing in my roll-up pants pushed my pounding head from my thoughts. My arms wrapped around her body and I pulled her into me tight as I dared—and then tighter still.

  “Oh, Tom—yes,” she whispered, breathless.

  5

  The sun had barely nosed over the Sierra when I rode by the Round Tent Saloon. I couldn’t help a rash of goose bumps, fearing maybe Jeremiah would pop from the flap like yesterday. But no one was out and drinking yet. The saloon didn’t even open till near noon.

  I rode Maggie’s chestnut, Rojo, a copper colored stallion with a mane and tail a tad darker than his coat. Way faster than the dun the chestnut would come in handy if I got in a tight spot. Maggie almost never took him out anymore so Rojo pranced and danced, ready to run and clearly happy to be out of the stable.

  Obadiah, the old stableman, had helped me get a scabbard for the shotgun tied under the left saddle skirt, and I’d tucked Maggie’s little gun into the waistband of my new brown roll up pants so I could get to it easy. Wearing my green work shirt and the wide brimmed straw Mexican sombrero pulled down low on my forehead, even folks who knew me hadn’t recognized me when I rode by. Maybe Eban had been right, maybe Jeremiah Wiggins would mistake me for a Mexican fellow and that might give me the time I needed to slip up on him. And that’s just what I calculated to do because I’d set my mind on getting to exactly why Jeremiah shot me, and to make darn sure it didn’t happen again—no matter what that took.

  All night long, after Lacey had gone to the cabin, I’d tossed and turned, thinking about it all, worrying, fretting. Would I shoot Jeremiah Wiggins if push came to shove? I never did come up with any feel-good-about-it answer. There was nothing to feel good about. Lord knows I didn’t want to shoot anybody, but when it came to shoot or be shot I’d be shooting. My mind set on it, I had no ground to give. I didn’t intend to chicken out.

  Yesterday, right after Eban told me Maggie would be working at the cafe again, I figured I’d do this today. I didn’t let on what I planned, not to Eban or Lacey. Nobody was going to talk me out of it and sure as the sun comes up every morning one of them would be telling me no—no doubt about it. Then I could only sit around and wait for Jeremiah to show up and shoot me in the back. Better I face this on my own terms. The idea of somebody out to kill me sent frightful chills through my very bones. They shot at me yesterday. Today I was lucky to be alive.

  At the Coloma Road I kept going straight along a horse path out of town. Men used this trail a lot less than Main Street. It still followed the creek but mostly only miners came this far. Some worked out in the stream washing dirt in low sided, wide pans, trying to separate the heavier gold from the soil. A miner who hit on a big pocket could wash out a lot of ore in a very short time. Hangtown Creek was loaded with gold. That’s why so many men came here to mine.

  I gave Rojo his head and he sped up to a trot. A gully started a little way down the stream and ran on for a while. Doak Wiggins, Jeremiah’s pa, worked a little ways after it leveled out. But here only scrub brush and grass grew between the trail and the stream, yet to the south pine trees crowded the road.

  The wind in my face whipped up the fire in my soul and forced my thoughts far from the normal day-to-day plodding of a team of mules pulling a heavy wagon. The sweet smell of pine, the gentle babble of the creek and the harsh shriek of a hawk jumbled together with the steady clatter of iron shoes on hard clay and gave me a feeling of unfettered freedom. I nudged the chestnut’s flank and Rojo answered with a full gallop. The speed felt wonderful, powerful and so natural. For a while I almost forgot where I headed—and why. Then the creek dropped off into the gully on my right and ahead the trail made a sharp bend to the south. I pulled on the reins and slowed Rojo to a trot before the turn.

  The road now ran up against the side of the gulch and I could look down to the stream below. No one mined here so this was one of the loneliest places along the creek. I rounded the curve and saw a rider coming on an old, plodding plow horse. A man stepped from the woods directly behind him. He wore a red shirt. He raised a rifle, aimed right this way. This was the second day in a row somebody pointed a gun at me.

  The rifle smoked. I heard the shot. Trembling, I yanked Rojo’s reins hard to turn him. The horse sensed my fear and sped back toward town. Beyond the curve I pulled off into the pines and yanked the shotgun from the scabbard, hopped to the ground and tied Rojo to a limb. I cowered behind a large pine near the trail and cocked one hammer of the scattergun.

  Quickly I checked myself but saw no sign I’d been hit. A small comfort, but this getting shot at had to stop. I couldn’t be lucky every day. I heard a horse coming fast. I pulled the shotgun to my shoulder and took a deep breath.

  A pinto, with Red Shirt franticly slapping his rump, galloped full bore around the turn. The guy didn’t even look in my direction. He rode by like a bolt from the blue, dead set to get away I reckoned. I didn’t have time to even ponder pulling the trigger. After all, I hadn’t come for Red Shirt. Still, I thought in hindsight, maybe I should’ve shot him.

  Carefully I crept closer to the edge of the trail and peeked toward town. There I saw Red Shirt, still going at a full gallop, splash across Hangtown Creek and head up the hill on the Coloma Road. I watched till long after the pinto disappeared into the trees, fearful that he would double back. Finally it dawned on me that maybe he didn’t even know it had been me back there. After all I had on the Mexican sombrero and like it might throw Jeremiah off my scent, it could do the same to the guy in the red shirt. And all lined up in row like we were he could’ve been aiming at the guy on the plow horse instead of me.

  Somehow, in all the excitement, I forgot about the fellow riding the nag, but now I reflected he hadn’t come by here. That puzzled me. Could it be that Red Shirt really did shoot at him? It didn’t make sense right off, but it sure seemed somebody got shot.

  Not wanting to ponder too long, I hopped on Rojo and hurried back around the curve. The plow horse stood by the gully. I grabbed the nag’s reins and looked over the edge. A man lay face down at the bottom, fancy boots half i
n the water, a red patch spread across the seat of his pants. It had to be Jeremiah Wiggins. Red Shirt shot him for sure. But I couldn’t get my mind around why? Still, I’d been shot and now Jeremiah had too, and all after I went looking for Lacey’s pa.

  I didn’t know if he’d bought the farm or not but figured I had to find out. However the sides of the gully looked way too steep for a horse. I turned Rojo and led the old nag back toward town till I found a spot easy enough to ride down. I splashed through the creek back to Jeremiah.

  I thought about pulling out the shotgun again but somehow he didn’t seem much of a threat. Still he could be playing possum so I grabbed Maggie’s little gun just in case. A lot of blood soaked Jeremiah’s shirt along his shoulder and back from a hole just beside the shoulder blade. I wished Eban was here. He always knew what to do in a spot like this and I sure didn’t. But I had to do something, so with the little gun in hand I knelt and gave Jeremiah a shake. He didn’t make a sound.

  Figuring Jeremiah didn’t have much fight left in him I put the pistol in my pocket. And because blood bubbled out of the hole in his back he likely still lived but must be hurt pretty bad. Eban cleaned my head wound with whiskey. I reckoned I should do the same for Jeremiah before I put on a bandage to plug up the wound, but I didn’t have any whiskey. I never touched the stuff and after it destroyed my Pa I swore I never would. But Jeremiah reeked of it even this early in the morning. Maybe he had some.

  Inside the first saddlebag I opened, right on top of everything, I found a half empty bottle and grinned, remembering how Memphis, a gambler who’d helped me out in Coloma last year, always said that a man who drank too much had his fill of Old Buzzard’s Breath, and Jeremiah sure had rotten smelling breath. I never saw Memphis take a drink. A man who gambles drunk always loses, Memphis said. Now it seemed like Jeremiah had gambled drunk—and lost. I reached back in the saddlebag and pulled out a worn shirt. It would do for a bandage.

  I cut away the clothes over the wound and poured a splash of whiskey on it. That brought a weak, whiney moan, but blood still pumped out pretty fast. I took a piece of the shirt I’d just cut off and folded it over a few times, put it over the hole and pressed down. After a while the bleeding stopped. I tore the shirt into strips and managed to get a bandage tied around Jeremiah.

  Now I had to get him onto the plow horse, and since he was heavier than me that could be tricky. It would help if I could wake him. I rolled him onto his back. He looked a mess with two black eyes, red welts on both cheeks, and his lips scabbed over bad. He had more bruises than he should have from me only pelting him one time in the snoot. I swabbed his face with a whiskey soaked cloth. He groaned and his eyes fluttered open.

  At first he stared directly ahead, an empty look about him. I figured maybe he was still rattled but decided more likely he’d be scared. After all, he hadn’t seen the guy in the red shirt. He’d had only seen a fellow in a straw sombrero and now that guy gawked back at him. Jeremiah might figure I’m the one who shot him.

  So I put on a comforting smile. “Take it easy,” I said. “I’m going to get you out of here and up to Maggie’s place. She’ll fix you up.”

  It looked like a whole bucket of doubt washed across his face. “Why?” he whispered, his voice awful weak.

  I didn’t know if Jeremiah asked why I shot him or why I helped him. There was only one way to find out. “Do you know the guy in the red shirt? He shot you in the back,” I told him as honestly as I could.

  Surprise crept into Jeremiah’s eyes. “K.O.—no—friend,” he mumbled in weak, breathy, broken words, and it seemed to me that a little talk took a lot of trying.

  “If I help you do you think you can get on your horse?” I asked, wondering if Jeremiah would give up the ghost right here and now. He sounded so pitiful and looked half dead already.

  But he gave a feeble nod and whispered, “Try.”

  I pulled him up to where he sat without my help, brought the plow horse over so he could reach the stirrup and helped him get to his feet. Jeremiah gritted his teeth hard but didn’t whine. He had sand in his craw. I’ll give him that. We got his left foot stuck into the stirrup and I heaved him up by his other boot. He flopped into the saddle with a bothersome groan.

  All that effort gave me an up-close, personal look at his footwear. It sure seemed peculiar for a man to have on pants that were patched in the rear, and way shorter than mine when Lacey teased me over them, and still sport a pair of fancy, handmade Mexican riding boots with snakeskin all along the foot part and fancy carvings in well-tanned leather going up the leg. Jeremiah’s high-toned footwear didn’t match his homemade pants at all.

  But I didn’t have time for pondering boots and britches. Jeremiah needed the shoulder tended right away. “You all right?” I asked to make sure.

  His face twisted with pain but he managed a small nod. I grabbed the nag’s reins, climbed on Rojo and rode slowly upstream toward town. I glanced back a lot to make sure he didn’t tumble off, certain that when we got to the cabin I’d have the dickens to pay from Maggie and Lacey both.

  ##

  I’d raced down the cabin steps two at a time and jumped up on Rojo ready to ride when Lacey burst out the cabin door.

  “Tom Marsh, you stop right where you are!” she yelled as she tore over to the split log rail and leaned out so far I thought she’d topple over.

  I stopped. I’d almost made it out of here without telling anybody the whole story. Maggie had been busy looking Jeremiah over and getting him settled and stuff, and with Lacey helping her I’d figured to get out while the getting was good. “I’ve got to go,” I said, trying my best to duck her questions.

  “Did you shoot that boy, Tom?” A deep worry crossed her face.

  “No, another fellow did. Does your Pa know a guy who wears a red shirt and a white straw hat with a blue bandana tied around his neck?” I asked, both to get her mind off me and maybe learn something at the same time.

  I could tell she thought hard. “No, I don’t remember a man like that, but I don’t know everybody Papa knows,” she finally said. “Is he the one that shot him?”

  “Yeah, I thought at first he wanted to shoot me. It scared me near to death.”

  “Is this about my Papa?” Now she looked really upset.

  I shrugged. “I’m really not sure, Lacey,” I said, hoping she’d let it go.

  Her hands went to her mouth. “Oh, Tom, this is my fault. I got you involved.”

  I knew I had to say something fast to make her feel better. “No! It ain’t your fault,” I fired back. “There’s swindlers and scalawags out there who stoop to shooting folks. If your Pa ain’t tied up with them, he must be against them. I guess that puts him on the right side. You ought to be proud of him for that.”

  A tiny smile bloomed on her red lips. “My Papa would be on the right side of every swindler and scalawag. That’s for sure.” She stuck her chin out, proud of her Papa.

  Her smile cheered me. At least she wouldn’t cry now. “Maggie ain’t going to be able to make it to the cafe today, what with taking care of Jeremiah and little Josie both,” I said. “I guess that leaves it up to us. I want to find Jeremiah’s pa and let him know what happened. I’ll be back after that. We might have to open the cafe late.”

  “No, I can get things started. I’m a pretty good cook too you know.” She glanced at the cabin door. “If you wait for me to tell Maggie I’ll ride down the hill with you.”

  Now I smiled wide. “Don’t take too long,” I said. I liked her a lot when she helped out, and she’d already been a real big help at the cafe and with Josie. Rojo snorted and pawed the ground, ready to ride, but I held him steady and waited for her. In no time the front door slammed shut and she bounced down the steps and crawled up on the nag.

  “Let’s go,” she yelled and rode off down the hill in front of me.

  It seemed like she looked forward to working at the cafe by herself. That would mean she’d cook lunch for today. If it was half as good a
s the supper she made for me last night folks would be mighty pleased with it, for a fact. I followed her across the log bridge and down the street to the front of the cafe.

  “Keep the doors latched till I get back.” I warned. “I hate to think of you here all by yourself with lonely miners everywhere about.”

  She handed me the reins to the nag, then leaned over from the plow horse and kissed my cheek. “I’ll be fine,” she vowed. “You’re the one that needs worrying over. Hurry back, okay?”

  “Soon as I can,” I promised. It made me feel special when she kissed me like that and put me in a powerful hurry to get back to her, but I still waited till she was inside and I heard the latch go down before I rode off. I knew that if the wrong man knew her pa was Webster Lawson she could be in for a peck of trouble. That sat hard on my mind.

  Town bustled with more miners than it had earlier and some Eastern guys already loafed outside the Round Tent. I nudged Rojo to a trot in case Red Shirt had doubled back and hid out inside the saloon. Past the Coloma Road I kicked Rojo up to a lope, about as fast as I thought I could push the old plow horse. We had a ways to go yet. I slowed up a little at the curve but sped up again on the other side.

  At last the gully started to level out and six men worked hard at washing ore down a long wooden sluice with cleats along the bottom to catch the gold. They were dressed strange, with cone shaped hats, baggy clothes and shoes that looked like nothing more than a flat piece of leather held on by straps. Each one had a long ponytail hanging down his back. I heard Chinese mined around here but I’d never seen any till today. Now I had to find Doak Wiggins.

  The first American looking fellow I asked shook his head and went back to panning ore, but the next one jerked a thumb downstream. I rode on. Pretty soon I saw Jed Wiggins standing ankle deep in the creek and sifting through a gold pan with his fingers, picking out nuggets from the gravel. Jed had the same dark hair and leathery, outdoor look about him as his brother. Yet I couldn’t help notice how he didn’t wear fancy boots like Jeremiah did, but his pants seemed about as raggedy.