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

by John Rose Putnam

  I followed him, my mind in a whirl. K.O. Manuel had tried to run those Mexicans off their claim and it’s likely he’d run the Chinamen on Hangtown Creek off theirs. He’d shot the two men up Weber Creek in the back and beat another one to death. Now he’d found a new place to camp and that would make him a lot harder to find. He could be anywhere. But deep down I knew that if K.O. really wanted to kill me he’d still be close.

  ##

  As we neared Coloma Major Lawson began to sway from side to side in his saddle. When he went so far to his left that I thought he would fall I called out, my voice loud in case he’d fallen asleep or something. “Sir, are you all right?”

  “Oh,” he moaned. “I’m afraid I pushed myself too far, Tom.”

  “Would you like to stop?” I asked.

  “No, not yet, maybe in town. I thought I saw a barbershop when we rode through. Do they have a place to take a hot bath?”

  I couldn’t help a small chuckle. Major Lawson was in better shape than I’d thought. “There’s one a little ways past the Golden Nugget, right across the road from P.T. Burns store.”

  “That would be perfect. Maybe after a hot bath, a haircut and a shave I’ll feel like a civilized man again.”

  “Civilized, sir?” To me, civilized folks were like Eban or Doak Wiggins, men who didn’t do bad stuff and would help others when they could. It was the new miners, fresh off the boat from the east, dressed in fancy clothes, hair cut neat, always shaved and bathed, who caused most of the trouble around here lately, them and folks like K.O. Manuel and the others at the mining cooperative.

  Now the Major let out a small laugh. “You’ve never been to a big city back east, have you Tom?” He still wobbled a bit as he rode but he’d grabbed onto the saddle with one hand and that steadied him some.

  “No sir. I’ve been here in California most of my life, lived on a farm in the Santa Clara Valley south of San Francisco up till last year.”

  “It’s a different world back there. Lacey and I were in Washington before we came here. It’s a bustling, important place. Senators and Congressmen ride around in fancy carriages and dine in expensive restaurants with beautiful, well-dressed women. There are hundreds of shops that sell everything you can think of, even things imported from far off places like India and China.”

  “Holy Moses, India and China! I read some stories about them in McGuffey’s Reader and I think I saw some Chinamen on Hangtown Creek yesterday. They were gone this morning and some new guys mined there. I wondered if maybe K.O. ran them off.”

  The Major stared hard at me, a no-nonsense look on his face. “Yeah, you might be right, Tom. That seems to be how the cooperative gets claims. They scare away miners who don’t speak English, mostly Mexicans, but now that boatloads of Chinese are coming into San Francisco the mining cooperative will target them too. Things are growing so fast everywhere in California that it’s hard to control lawbreakers.”

  “Why do people come to San Francisco, sir? There’s no gold there.”

  “Because it has such a good port.”

  “But, sir, San Francisco ain’t even as big as Coloma.”

  “You haven’t seen San Francisco in a while. A year ago it was a sleepy Mexican village. Now you wouldn’t recognize it. It must be ten times as big as back then, and still people live in tents all around town. And it will continue to grow. Everyday ships show up from all over the world, loaded with men wanting gold. The word is that many thousands more are on their way.”

  “Thousands?” I blurted. The miners along Hangtown Creek already complained about all the new men who came here from somewhere else and didn’t know the first thing about mining, much less how to survive in the rugged gold country. The idea that thousands more were coming was downright scary. It was a number that sounded so big I couldn’t get a firm grip on how many people it really meant.

  “Many thousands, Tom.” The Major had a smile now, clearly enjoying the wonderment he’d caused me by tossing around numbers so farfetched. “It takes a ship about the same time to get here from the east as it does a wagon but a wagon can only go in the summer. The ships started arriving this spring but it will take until fall for those who come overland. There could be as many as one hundred thousand people who will to come to California this year alone. Some of them will even be from Europe and Africa.”

  “Wow, that’s a lot to think about, sir,” I muttered, bothered how all these new men would fit in. Already more miners got robbed or killed than a year ago.

  “California is going to change fast. It already has.” Major Lawson let loose his grip on the saddle and swept his hand towards the town of Coloma down the road in front of us. “Look how this town has grown. When James Marshall started building the saw mill here this was nothing but wilderness. Now, only a year after the news of gold got out, the whole country is teeming with people. You’ve seen that for yourself I expect.”

  “Yes sir, I reckon I have seen some of it,” I admitted, but I had to wonder why the Major talked like he thought more new men here would be good. When we got to the first buildings in town I ducked down, my face tucked in behind the wide brim of the sombrero. We passed the saw mill and I dared a peek into the lot but didn’t see Eban or the freight wagon. Judging by the sun it was still too early for him. I kept my head low, and we rode by the Golden Nugget Saloon. The Major stopped in front of the Tyler Wright Tonsorial Parlor.

  “Will you be okay getting back to Bug Riddle’s campsite, Tom?” He carefully slid off Lola and landed on his good leg.

  “Yes sir. I expect so.” I gave a quick glance back toward the saloon.

  “I’ll see you there,” he said, and limped over to the barber’s door.

  I sat on Rojo to mull things over. What I really wanted to do now was talk to Eban, but for that I’d have to ride up the Hangtown Road. And I had a real bad feeling that K.O. Manuel might just sit somewhere up there waiting to shoot me when I came along.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a fellow ride by me on a mule. I couldn’t help but turn to stare. The rider, who looked a lot like Jeremiah with stringy brown hair under a beat up slouch hat, had on raggedy, homemade pants with a pair of fancy, hand tooled Mexican riding boots sticking out of the bottom. If this fellow didn’t work for K.O. Manuel I’d eat my straw sombrero. He might be on his way to meet the killer right now.

  I took out after him nice and slow; face down behind the hat brim, looking like I hadn’t a care in the world and no curiousness at all about the fellow on the mule ahead of me. Still my heart pounded like the blacksmith’s hammer and sweat gushed from my forehead like a waterfall on a Sierra stream. But it didn’t seem like the guy on the mule had noticed me—at least he hadn’t looked back.

  We neared the eastern edge of town. I slowed Rojo some. If the guy I followed worked with K.O. Manuel and headed to K.O.’s new campsite right now, I’d be willing to bet my brand new roll-up pants against the raggedy ones Mule Boy had on that he would turn up the road that went to Hangtown. When he did he’d likely look back towards town like most men would to see if anybody came along after him. He’d see me for sure. If I stayed this close to him on the trail it might make him edgy, and that worried me.

  But I kept after him, head down behind the hat brim, eyes glued to the dirt below. And that’s when I noticed the hoof prints the mule left. Three of the shoes looked the same as any of the hundreds of other prints splattered across the dusty street, but one, from the right foreleg, always left a small pile of dirt midway down the outside where one of the nails worked loose.

  If I hadn’t been so dead set on hiding my face I’d never have noticed, but now each little pile of dirt seemed to leap up off the ground and swat me in the nose. I knew I could follow the mule almost anywhere he went and that meant I didn’t have to be so close and take the chance of the rider fretting over who I might be.

  I pulled Rojo to a halt, hopped to the ground, led the chestnut over to the side of the road and started in on tightening his cinches. Eve
ry so often I’d sneak a peek over the saddle and only show a small part of my face. In no time, like I’d figured, the guy took a hard gander back towards town when he turned up the road to Hangtown.

  I could see Mexican water bags hanging across the saddle. Could he be bringing water to K.O.? That’s one more bet I’d be willing to make.

  After he rode out of sight I leapt back on Rojo and moseyed along behind him, sure I could spot where the little piles of dirt kicked up by the loose nail left the trail. I was double certain that they would lead me to K. O. Manuel’s new camp.

  I turned up the road to Hangtown Creek. Past the towering redwood trees to the west and the lowland filled with pines on the east, the road twisted and turned. It rose steadily from the river valley until, on both sides of the trail, oaks replaced the evergreens and it smoothed out some with the turns easier than those closer to Coloma.

  Soon I’d made it halfway to the top of the hill. Somewhere up ahead Mule Boy rode on, but I still couldn’t see him and hadn’t since town. That had to be good, I thought. He likely didn’t even know about me dogging his tracks.

  Then a woman screamed. The loud clatter of hoof beats came from up ahead. Someone came this way fast. I ducked into the oaks east of the road and hid, fretful it might be K.O. When I got Rojo turned back toward the trail a buggy showed up, pulled by a fine, black stallion running full out down the hill, a dark haired lady in a fancy hat pulling back on the reins for all she was worth, yelling at the top of her lungs for the horse to stop.

  A runaway buggy! Sure as water runs downhill the woman would get hurt bad if she didn’t get some help quick. I knew I ought to save her bacon, but if I went after her I’d likely lose track of the mule, its rider, and maybe my only chance to find K.O. Manuel. Still, somebody had to chase that buggy down and stop it.

  I started to walk Rojo out of the woods but I heard another horse coming fast. Maybe they would save the woman. I held up and a mustang like the one Joshua rode sped by me carrying a Mexican fellow. Now I started to fret. The Mexican wore a straw sombrero like the one I had on, but looked way shorter and a lot stockier than Joshua. Yet the mustang seemed a spitting image of Joshua’s horse.

  Back on the trail I spun Rojo first toward Coloma then toward Hangtown Creek. Should I follow the Mexican chasing the buggy or keep after the mule and find K.O.’s camp? Holy Moses, maybe the Mexican fellow stole Joshua’s horse, maybe he’s K.O, maybe he’d been to the cabin, where he hurt Maggie, Eban or Joshua—or even Lacey!

  I swallowed hard, took a deep breath and blew it out with a wheeze. I didn’t have much time but I had to think this thing through. First off, I knew K.O. would have a hard time getting past Joshua and Eban both. He could do it, sure, but if I had to bet on it, I wouldn’t bet on K.O. Maybe the mustang only looked like Joshua’s. No way could I tell that for certain so I’dkeep after the mule. That’s what Eban would do and that’s what my gut told me to do.

  With my mind set again on finding K.O, I commenced scouting around for the telltale hoof print with the pile of dirt from the loose nail but nowhere on the road could I find one. Two horses and an out of control buggy had splattered dirt clods, dust, more hoof prints and wheel marks all across the mule’s trail. Dang, I thought, what do I do now? Maybe there would be more little piles up the road.

  I nudged Rojo and went on, scouring the trail from one side to the other, but the piles of dirt that only a short time ago had stood out like the tallest mountain in the Sierra had vanished. Surely somewhere along the road one hoof print with the loose nail would show up. After all, every one of them couldn’t have been covered over. But no matter how hard I searched I didn’t find one single print from the mule.

  Finally I raised my face to the sky and silently pled for the help Doak Wiggins said might come my way. Then I smiled, feeling better all of a sudden. I gave Rojo a kick and trotted up the hill, knowing full well I could be riding headlong into trouble. Around the next curve I slowed again and once more searched high and low for any sign of the unmistakable track of the mule. I still couldn’t find a one.

  While I pondered what to do next a muleskinner yelled like he needed to get his team to work together. I didn’t recognize the voice right off but knew it wasn’t Eban. Staying heedful of the danger I faced, I ducked back into the trees once more and hid behind a bramble in a small clearing among the oaks.

  In no time one of our freight wagons rolled by. I recognized the mules, but Woody Dunn drove them, not Eban. I hadn’t seen Woody since he told me I had to tend the cafe ‘cause of Maggie’s baby coming. But Eban had promised to be back today. Something happened, something bad. I knew it. I needed to catch up with Woody to find out.

  But before I could get Rojo going I heard a thud, followed right off by a grunt, from somewhere up the hill. Quickly another thud came and the long, loud moan of a man who’d been hurt bad rumbled through the woods. Could it be K.O. beating up on Mule Boy? I leaned over and hugged Rojo’s neck to keep the chestnut quiet. But mostly I needed something to hold on to, something to keep my hands from shaking so.

  “Stupid gringo! I kill you someday.” The voice came from not far up the road, no more than fifty paces away, I’d guess. My whole body shook.

  “I’m sorry, my Pa needed me,” somebody else whined.

  “Bah, now I miss the wagon because you sleep late. Then you lie to me like all gringos do.” Another sound came, sharp like a face slap, answered by a blubbering yelp.

  “It won’t happen again, never. I swear. Let me be. Please, let me be,” sobbed the other guy, whimpering, begging. I started to understand Jeremiah now. He must have gone through the same thing. Silently I thanked God that Jeremiah had seen the light along the road that day and refused to shoot me. Otherwise I knew I’d be a goner already.

  “Do all gringos cry like a woman? Cross me again I kill you. Vamoose.” K.O. yelled loud, his tone snotty and oozing with high-handedness.

  “Yes sir. Yes sir. Right away, sir.”

  The sudden silence chilled me. I held tight to Rojo, shaking, scared out of my gourd. I heard the mule lumbering this way, picking up speed as fast as a beat up old jackass could. Soon I saw them, the boy swatting the jenny with the end of the reins. Except for a thick streak of blood that ran down the side of his mouth his face looked as pale as a freshly whitewashed wall. I turned back toward where I’d heard K.O.’s voice. The drum of the mule’s hoof beats faded behind me.

  I let go of Rojo’s neck and slipped the shotgun out. If K.O. knew I hid here there would be hell to pay. My chest heaved, my hands shook and my heart pounded hard. I sat up tall in Rojo’s saddle and quietly cocked one hammer of the scattergun. If K.O. showed his ugly face I’d blow the rotten polecat straight into the next world.

  “Andele!” Hoof beats thundered from up the road again, this time heading toward the top of the hill. I rushed to the edge of the trail in time to see K.O. and the pinto wheel around the next curve and out of sight. I had half a mind to take after him but thought better of it. I knew where to find him now. I’d be back tomorrow. Besides, I needed to look into the runaway buggy, the Mexican guy and why Woody Dunn drove the freight wagon instead of Eban. I turned Rojo toward Coloma.

  ##

  When I got nearer to town, with the redwoods tall to my left and the pines thick on my right, I saw the buggy sitting by the side of the road ahead at the far end of a straight stretch. The Mexican fellow and the woman stood behind it talking while the mustang munched grass nearby. She looked like somebody real important, with a fancy dress that only a queen from some place far away would wear and a hat with a green feather so long that every Injun west of the Mississippi would take a fancy to it.

  At least the fellow had saved her, and he couldn’t be K.O. Still, to be safe, I pulled Maggie’s little gun from my pocket and stuck it in the waistband of my roll-up pants at the small of my back. The woman looked up and stared straight at me. She said something to the Mexican guy who right away walked her over and helped her into the
buggy seat. The reins popped and she rattled off toward Coloma.

  But now the Mexican fellow stared at me. I started to sweat again and thought about pulling out the shotgun, but if I did the guy might think I aimed on shooting him and might shoot first. When the guy turned the mustang sideways and climbed on I couldn’t help but think how the horse sure did look exactly like Joshua’s. My left hand started to shake, my palms clammy. But I kept my eyes on the Mexican guy, ready for anything.

  The man ripped off his sombrero and spread his arms wide. “Tom,” he shouted.

  My jaw dropped flat to ground. It all came out of the blue, the one thing I never expected. “Eban.” I yelled back and kicked Rojo to a gallop, my heart thumping again. I hurried to meet my friend. When I got close my excitement spewed over. I had way too much to say. “I followed a guy from town,” I hollered. “He rode a mule and wore fancy boots—”

  “Hold on, Tom,” Eban interrupted his hand up, palm forward.

  I yanked back on the reins and pulled Rojo to a stop. “Anyway,” I went on, “he led me to K.O.’s new camp and after that K.O. beat him—”

  “Now wait up, son.” This time Eban held up both palms. “You’re talking so fast I can’t hear it all with these old ears. I ain’t never seen you so riled up about anything. Let’s you and me ride on toward Coloma and then you can tell me the whole thing real slow, starting from the beginning.”

  “Okay, Eban.” I grabbed a deep breath and started in on my story again slow and easy. By the time we reached the river I’d managed to get him caught up on everything that had happened since yesterday. “Anyway, that’s about it,” I said. “But who was that lady in the buggy? I never seen a woman dressed as grand as her, like a famous lady in a book.”

  “That, my young friend, was Miss Dancy Bellotti, and she sings down at the Golden Nugget every night but Sunday. Ain’t she something?” Eban’s eyes had a dreamy, faraway look and I could understand why. But Dancy Bellotti, decked out in her fancy dress and hat and the most eye-catching female I’d ever seen by a long shot, didn’t hold a candle to Lacey’s prettiness.