I left the pinto and tiptoed to the scrub brush ahead, eased around a bush and peered into a campsite on the other side. Under a large oak I saw the ashes of a small campfire. Even from here they looked cold, like there hadn’t been a fire there at least since yesterday. An old dented blue coffee pot lay on its side nearby. All in all something didn’t seem right. If a man had camped here shouldn’t I see more signs of him than a cold fire and an empty coffee pot?
Coaxing up as much courage as I could, I stuck my head farther out into the open and looked around real fast, swinging the scattergun along with my eyes. I stepped out of the brush and into the open. It took all the heart I could muster. If Romy Manuel saw me I’d be dead way before my time.
But no shot came, no Romy Manuel, nothing. I walked to the fire pit and felt the ashes like the Major had done. They were stone cold. Nobody had built a fire last night and banked the embers when they turned in so there would still be enough heat to restart it easily this morning. Nobody had slept here. Romy kept his horse here, that’s all. But where had the slimy rattlesnake slithered off to, why, and with who?
I didn’t know what to do. When I planned on sneaking up on this varmint at his campsite and shooting him, I hadn’t thought that the guy wouldn’t be here. A wave of relief rolled over me. Now I wouldn’t have to kill a man after all, but as soon as that idea crossed my mind I turned sick right down to my toes. If I couldn’t find Romy Manuel to shoot him then neither could Eban and Major Lawson and the scoundrel still might hurt Lacey. I’d let her down. I felt like a fool.
I felt worse when it dawned on me that if I stayed here Romy could slip up on me just like Bug Riddle had said. I needed to get away from the campsite quick, so I hustled back toward the trail thinking that if he did come back I could see him way before he got close. But when I got to the road I noticed something I’d missed before. Since I’d been so caught up in the deep gouges made when the horse rode off south after Romy Manuel spurred him on yesterday, I hadn’t paid any attention to the other signs pressed into the dust—buggy tracks.
The light, narrow wheel marks stood out easily from the heavy, wide ruts a freight wagon like the one I drove by here most every day left on the trail. The prints of ironclad wheels hadn’t seemed important before, after all Romy Manuel rode a horse. But now I could see it clear, somebody had stopped a buggy here and more than once, a lot more. Even the outline of horseshoes stood out where the horse waited in front of the buggy.
Boot prints started in the dust at the edge of the trail and stopped all at once right before the buggy tracks. Other boot prints appeared sideways to the road at about the same spot and vanished into the woods like they would if somebody climbed down from a buggy. The boots that made these prints had high heels and pointed toes. Unless I missed my guess they looked like the bottom side of special made, hand tooled Mexican riding boots—Romy Manuel’s boots.
While I stared at the story unfolding in the dust it came to me that the only buggy I’d ever seen anywhere around these parts rode right by here yesterday looking for all the world like it was out of control, a real pretty lady named Dancy something or other crying out for help like a lost lamb cries for its mama. Up the road, past the curve where I’d seen Romy Manuel disappear yesterday, sat a clearing big enough for a buggy, or a freight wagon, to turn around in easy.
Another notion slapped me hard up the side of my head and I started to shiver. Romy Manuel and this Dancy lady had to be in cahoots. He probably spent every night in her room snuggling up with her in a big old feather bed. She’d pick him up here at night and drop him off in the morning. Eban said she sang at the Golden Nugget. If somebody who knew about the plans to nab this scoundrel blabbed about it there the chances she’d hear it were awful good. As sure as winter follows fall she’d tell everything she heard to her lover boy.
And here I stood, out in the open like a perfect fool, Dancy Bellotti and her murdering boyfriend likely slipping out of town and making their way here right now. Romy Manuel, armed to the teeth and as cold-blooded as a rattlesnake, would readily shoot anybody standing between him and where he kept the pinto—exactly where I stood. No wonder my whole body shook like a dried up cornstalk in a thunderstorm.
I hurried back into the woods like a hungry man late for supper and ducked behind the first big oak I found. Sweat poured into my eyes, stinging them. I yanked off the sombrero and wiped my face with my sleeve. A little while ago, when I’d first figured out Romy Manuel hadn’t camped here, I’d been totally unsure what I should do, but now things seemed as clear as a glass of fresh spring water. The man Bug Riddle called a red shirted spawn of Satan would show up soon, planning on getting on his pinto and beating a fast path to someplace. I’d simply sit and wait for him.
I drew in in a deep breath and in my mind I heard the words from before, I’m a man now. Slowly I let the air out and like magic the words I can do this formed just like they had earlier. Again and again I breathed in the clean, fresh forest air. Again and again I let it slowly ease from my lips. Again and again the same words ran through my mind, I’m a man now. I can do this. I’m a man now. I can do this.
At first it sounded like a whisper on the wind, faint and far away, the steady clatter of a horse at a trot, growing louder, coming this way from Coloma. Soon came a rattle, a squeak, and the thump of an iron-rimmed wheel bouncing over a rut in the road. Dancy Bellotti’s buggy, with Romy Manuel in it, headed this way. The time had come to prove I really am a man, that I really could do this.
I slipped around the tree so I could look down the road. I couldn’t see the buggy yet but the sound of hoof beats grew steadily closer. My left hand started to shake again. I tightened my grip on the shotgun. I caught a glimpse of the stallion from yesterday, his hooves drumming on louder than even the thump of my thundering heart. In no time the buggy flashed by an opening in the forest cover.
The words came again. I’m a man now. I can do this. My breathing slowed in time with the words. The buggy stopped. I watched as fancy Mexican riding boots hit the trail. Flashes of red came through the leaves. The voice of a man speaking Mexican mixed with the soft sound of a woman laughing. Romy and Dancy were happy. They hadn’t heard about Eban, Major Lawson and the posse.
I edged around the tree and leveled the shotgun at the red between the leaves, my fingers on the triggers to both barrels. As soon as the buggy left I’d shoot. I was a man now. I could do this. Then the red dropped to the ground, clear out of sight. A shot rang out. A ball ripped into me. I jerked back. The shotgun went off with a terrible boom, shattering limbs and leaves overhead. I screamed and tumbled to the ground, a fierce pain in my right arm.
A whip cracked and the buggy rumbled off. I stumbled to my feet, blood all over me—my blood. I had to get to Rojo. Romy Manuel would shoot me again if I didn’t get away fast, but the gunshot stunned me. I didn’t know where to find the chestnut. Still I ran. It was all I could do.
I’d lost the shotgun. It didn’t matter. It was empty. The sombrero had fallen off too and now sweat poured into my eyes again. I tried to wipe it out with the sleeve of my left arm, but ran headlong into something.
Oh God! Romy Manuel!
A hand grabbed the bandana around my neck. A fist slammed into my face, rattling my whole head. I squirmed, trying to get free but the fist smashed into my stomach, blowing air out of my lungs with a loud oomph. I wheezed, and gasped hard trying to suck more air back in. I needed to breathe. I needed to live. A hand slapped my face then the back of the hand fell harder still on my other cheek.
“Look at me, gringo. Look into my eyes.” It was Romy Manuel, his voice slimy, oozing like rotten, moldy preserves from an old, crusty jar. My eyes stung from the sweat that poured into them. I couldn’t look, but did manage a short gulp of air.
Another slap, followed by a backhand harder than before, “I said look into my eyes!” Now Romy Manuel screamed loud, wild. The moldy, rotten sound gone, replaced instead with the unholy roar of Satan. I opened my eyes
, in spite of the sting of the sweat, terrified, trembling from nose to toe. Like Bug Riddle had said, Romy Manuel would pound the very lifeblood from the pores on my face. Then he’d likely break every bone in my body.
“Why you come after me, gringo, a little niño with a big shotgun? I kill you slow. I make you hurt till you beg to die.” He laughed a dark, evil laugh. “Then I hurt you more.”
I realized he’d left my hands free. The spawn of Satan held me up by the bandana around my neck. I’d tucked Maggie’s little gun into the waistband of my roll-up pants at the small of my back when I left Bug’s camp. I could get it—maybe. But my right arm was useless, shot up, throbbing, bleeding. I eased the left one behind my back.
Another swat spun my head around. “I question you. You answer. Now!”
I shook my head instead, knowing I might pass out soon. But I had to get to the gun before Romy did knock me senseless. I reached deep for whatever strength I could find, whatever courage my beat up soul had left, and spit into the face of the devil.
Romy Manuel howled and cursed loud in Mexican. Hate smoldered from dark, wicked eyes. Then he slowly wiped his face with the sleeve of his red shirt, and I pushed my left hand further behind my back until I found the handle of Maggie’s gun. Another punch landed in my gut, harder than before. What little wind I still had blew out again. I wanted to double over, to gasp for air, but Romy Manuel held me up and punched me in the face again and again and again.
My mind faded with each blow. I couldn’t take much more. I only wanted to die, when through the mist it came to me, I’m a man now. I sucked in air, hot, sweet air. I can do this. I blew it out through bloody, battered lips. I’m a man now. I can do this.
One of my eyes crept open. A will to live poured back into my heart. A resolve, steeled with grit I didn’t know I had, overwhelmed my shattered body. Powered only by this deep-rooted desire to survive, without the help of a single thought, I kicked up hard with my right leg, square between Romy Manuel’s legs. The wail of a thousand demons burst from Satan’s mouth, I pulled Maggie’s little gun, cocked it, poked it deep into Romy’s gut and fired.
The little pistol popped. The sharp tang of burnt black powder filled the very air my lungs still needed so badly. Romy Manuel grunted, grabbed his gut with both hands and took a step back. His eyes grew wild and glazed with pain, but still the hate burned through, boiling up from his stinking, rotten soul.
The clatter of a horse and buggy came from the road and quickly stopped. A woman cried out in Mexican. It had to be Dancy Bellotti, calling for her red shirted lover. He barked back, a short two-word answer, Satan calling his Jezebel. Romy Manuel wasn’t done, not by a long shot. He still had fight left in him. He wouldn’t quit, not until I was dead—or he was. Now the woman would come to help.
I knew I had nothing left to fight with. Both guns empty, my body beaten, bruised, shot up and in no shape to even wrestle a woman, I had to run, find Rojo and ride as fast as I could away from here. I knew where the road was again, Dancy Belloti’s buggy had stopped there, so I stumbled off toward where I thought I’d left my horse.
The forest, so open and free before, closed in around me, the deep silence smothering the very air I needed. I tripped and tumbled to the ground. Pain surged from the wound in my arm, my head throbbed, my jaw ached. I managed to stifle a scream. No matter what, even if Romy Manuel did find me, I refused to give that vermin the satisfaction of knowing how bad I hurt.
Loud voices talking in Mexican came from behind me somewhere. I couldn’t understand the words exactly but somehow I knew Dancy Bellotti would bind up Romy Manuel’s wound and help him to his horse. I pushed myself up and staggered on, but soon realized I’d lost my way. I had no idea where Rojo waited. If I couldn’t find the chestnut before Romy Manuel came after me again I would soon be dead. My whole body trembled at the thought.
I ran on unsure where to go; lost, confused, wiping sweat from my eyes with a sopping left sleeve. Stumbling, falling, and getting up again, but nowhere could I find the horse. Then I heard a whip crack and the buggy rattle off. Dancy Bellotti had gone, heading back to Coloma. Romy Manuel would come soon. I had no time left to find Rojo. And there I saw the blood pooled on the forest floor—my blood.
I’d run in a circle and come back to the first place I’d fallen, but now I could still hear the rattle of the buggy along the trail. I could follow the sound toward Coloma, toward Rojo, toward my one last chance to live. I ran as fast as I could, sucking in air—I’m a man now—blowing it out—I can do this.
The clatter of the buggy faded fast and still I saw no sign of the chestnut. The killer tracked me now. I knew it. I had to find my horse. Rojo must be close, but where? Maybe if I called out Rojo would answer, but maybe he wouldn’t and either way Romy Manuel would hear and know where to find me. With nothing else to do I ran on.
I heard the rustle of a horse following me, crackling the leaves underfoot as he came this way, the pinto, getting closer. I looked back and groaned. I’d left a clear trail to follow from the blood that dripped from my arm, one drop with every step I took, the dark red clear against the light brown forest floor. Like an idiot I’d led Romy Manuel straight to me. I whipped off my bandana and tied it around my wound, kicking myself for not doing it sooner and for making it so easy for that festering maggot to find me.
I had only one chance now—I had to find the chestnut. “Rojo, where are you?” I cried. No answer came, but the hoof beats from Romy’s pinto grew louder. “Rojo, talk to me, please!” I imagined a wicked grin covering the face of the devil right now, and I hated to give that vicious butcher any more pleasure for his evil deeds but I had no choice. I was desperate. But Rojo didn’t answer. Panic crept into my very bones. My left hand shook wildly when I wiped the sweat from my forehead once more.
Through half closed eyes I saw it, a scuff in the forest floor, and another past it, and still another after that, the track of a horse—the track of Rojo. I wheeled right to follow the trail and finally saw him still tied to the oak tree. I’d never been so happy to see a horse in my life. “I hope you’re ready to run,” I whispered. My life depended on Rojo now—him and God.
I freed the reins, crawled into the saddle, turned the chestnut toward the road to Coloma and nudged him to a slow walk, sneaking across the open ground under the oaks beside clumps of scrub brush along the way I’d come. I hoped with all my heart that Romy Manuel wouldn’t hear Rojo as he stepped through the leaves, at least not until I’d made it to the trail.
Ahead I could see a small stain of blood on the ground where I’d stopped and tied the bandana around my arm. I drew in more clean air. I’m a man now. I let it out slow. I can do this. But my left hand, the one that held the reins, began to shake again, trembling like never before. I’m a man now. I can do this. The words rolled through my brain again and again yet the shiver continued. The words that once calmed my fear no longer helped. I looked around and saw nothing, no one. Everything seemed peaceful, natural—everything except the stillness. The creatures here had hidden, quiet, scared, just like before I’d become one of them, before I belonged in the woods. Someone else had come, someone who didn’t belong.
Romy Manuel!
“Hiyah,” I yelled and kicked Rojo’s flanks as hard as I could. A loud boom split the quiet. Buckshot whizzed behind my head, shredding the leaves of nearby trees without mercy. My horse raced toward the road. Loud hoof beats came from my left, the pinto with the devil on his back raced to cut me off.
“Run, Rojo, run,” I yelled, but the chestnut already had hit full stride. I kept the reins loose, giving him his head. He knew the way and galloped with a burning eagerness to run free. I quickly stole a glance at Romy Manuel heading for the same spot along the road that I did, the place I’d left the trail when I came into the woods. I had the shorter distance to run. I would make the trail first, but Romy Manuel would be right on my tail.
I tucked my head as low as possible over Rojo’s neck, trying to give the sma
llest target I could. The shotgun blast had been close, too close, and Romy still carried the scattergun in his hand with one barrel left to fire. I’d been lucky once, but knew that the odds of him missing a second shot were slim.
Rojo broke from the trees and onto the road with a new burst of power, galloping full out toward the American River. I dared another glance to the trail behind me. Romy Manuel came fast, the shotgun still in his hand, a shredded white petticoat tied around his gut. The pinto’s head bobbed up and down just like Rojo’s did, his nose flared wide as he drew in air and his hooves threw clods of dirt high each time they dug into the hard clay trail.
But I had a lead of about ten horse lengths. Maybe Rojo could run as fast as the pinto, and hopefully a little faster. Still, Romy Manuel could shoot me with the scattergun anytime, but from a horse moving that fast he might miss. At least that’s what I told myself, but if the buckshot did hit me the blast would tear my back apart, blow me clean out of the saddle and likely kill me outright.
I shuddered. “Go Rojo. Hurry,” I yelled and gave him a kick, desperately hoping that he could run even faster.
Up ahead the trail turned to the left. I’d made a lot of trips along this stretch of road, sometimes hauling supplies into Coloma but almost always with a heavy wagonload of lumber on the way back. I knew every turn, bump, and rut from Hangtown Creek to the American River and just past this next curve the trail got steeper and the turns sharper and closer together.
Rojo wheeled to the west, still running at a full gallop, leaning into the trail sure-footed and strong. After Maggie had left him cooped up in the stable so much lately he welcomed the chance to run free and fast again like any good horse would. But I thought it awful strange that while having Romy Manuel on my tail scared me out of my gourd, Rojo ran on like he’d never had so much fun, and if I lived I’d be eternally grateful to him for that.
Into the face of the devil: A love story from the California gold rush Page 17
