by Tim Champlin
CRITICS PRAISE TIM CHAMPLIN!
THE LAST CAMPAIGN
“As usual, Champlin seamlessly weaves his impeccable historical research into his plot . . . A fine traditional Western that is more realistic than most.”
—Roundup Magazine
A TRAIL TO WOUNDED KNEE
“Full of suspense . . . maintains the reader’s interest . . . [Champlin] has unbelievable knowledge of the Lakota Indians.”
—The Tombstone Epitaph
“Champlin once more demonstrates his skill at blending fiction and history . . . [He] creates both mood and a sense of place.”
—Roundup Magazine
RAIDERS OF THE WESTERN & ATLANTIC
“No one writes novels with humorous, impossible plots better than Tim Champlin. . . . An absolutely wonderful book.”
—Roundup Magazine
WAYFARING STRANGERS
“An exceptional frontier story. . . . Purchase it, read it, and find a spot for it in your library.”
—The Tombstone Epitaph
DEADLY SEASON
“Champlin obviously knows his area and the minutiae of his chosen period quite well . . . [A] good story.”
—The Tombstone Epitaph
THE TOMBSTONE CONSPIRACY
“A nice brew of traditional western fare, that is to say, juiced up a notch or two.”
—The Historical Novels Review
Other Leisure books by Tim Champlin:
TERRITORIAL ROUGH RIDER
THE LAST CAMPAIGN
A TRAIL TO WOUNDED KNEE
RAIDERS OF THE WESTERN & ATLANTIC
WAYFARING STRANGERS
DEADLY SEASON
THE TOMBSTONE CONSPIRACY
THE SURVIVOR
FLYING EAGLE
SWIFT THUNDER
THE BLAZE
OF NOON
TIM CHAMPLIN
DORCHESTER PUBLISHING
Published by special arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency.
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 2005 by Tim Champlin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Trade ISBN: 978-1-4285-1872-8
E-book ISBN: 978-1-4285-0138-6
First Dorchester Publishing, Co., Inc. edition: May 2007
The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Visit us online at www.dorchesterpub.com.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
For my sister, Shirley, with all my love.
“O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon. . . .”
—John Milton (1608-1674)
PROLOGUE
July 14, 1781
La Purisima Concepción
Colorado Crossing
Northwestern-most mission of the Sonora Province
“Padre Diaz!”
No reply. Padre Mathias Moreno rose from his chair in the sacristy of the crude adobe chapel and looked out the open doorway.
A young Franciscan in a brown robe was tethering a gray burro in the shade of the wall.
“Ah, there you are,” Padre Moreno said. “All packed?”
“Padre, I don’t think we should start out across the Gran Desierto in such weather,” Father Diaz said.
“Hace mucho calor,” Padre Moreno agreed. “But we can remove our robes and wear cooler cotton. Also, we’ll travel at night, and our journey will be pleasant enough.”
“Perhaps I should stay,” the young priest demurred. “I speak a little of the Quechan language. And they’ve been showing signs of restlessness. We can’t expect to gain their confidence and convert them to the true faith if the priests keep changing, and coming and going all the time. We must be a constant presence, a stable influence.”
“It’s too dangerous to stay among these people by yourself,” Padre Moreno explained patiently. “You haven’t had much experience in mission work. The Yumas will be civilized in time, just as the Pimas have been. We’ve baptized a few babies here, and solemnized several marriages. We must now let that take root before we press on for more. We’ll go back to Caborca, and return in a few months. They’ll be ready to receive us then, and we can make further progress, perhaps even guide them in building a decent church and enlarging and extending some irrigation ditches. Besides, we’re leaving seven Spanish families who will be a living example for these poor savages. And twenty-five soldiers from the San Ignacio garrison at Tubac will remain to keep order.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. The soldiers are arrogant, and beat these Indians for the slightest offense. They seduce the better-looking Indian women. The soldiers act as if these Yumas are their personal slaves. That is not the way to win converts. And the Indians are becoming very resentful.”
“It is regrettable, but an atmosphere of discipline must be maintained,” Padre Moreno said. “The soldiers provide order and structure and law to give these primitive people the framework of civilization so that Christianity can flower.”
“Did Christ or the Apostles beat the people they preached to?” Padre Diaz asked pointedly. He turned away with a disgusted look, and began to pull off his brown robe, revealing long, white cotton drawers beneath.
“Leave your robe on until we’re out of sight of the Indians,” Padre Moreno said. “These robes are the visible symbols of our spiritual office.”
“Sí.” Diaz dropped the hooded robe back into place. “Father, let’s rest a few hours and start out this evening. They don’t call that long road the Camino del Muerto, the Road of Death, for nothing.”
“Providence will see us through,” Moreno replied with a sigh. It would be a long trip if his young assistant did not settle down. He decided to distract the young priest with a surprise. “Besides, we’re not starting out on our journey this minute. You know the missions are in constant need of money. I’ve noticed that even the poorest of these Indians in their brush and mud huts sometimes display ornaments made of tiny gold nuggets. I’ve made discreet inquiries as to where the gold might have come from. As you know, neither the Yumas nor the Pimas are like the mighty Aztecs who valued gold highly and possessed much of it. Last week, I finally persuaded the two Indians we’ve baptized with the Christian names of Diego and Bartholomew to accompany us on the first days of our journey and show us the source of this gold. Apparently it
wasn’t just picked up from the gravel of the river bottom.”
Padre Diaz had stepped inside the sacristy where the thick adobe walls kept the air nearly ten degrees cooler. He pushed up the sleeves of his robe. “Then where did they get it?”
“Somewhere in the Castle Dome Mountains, a few leagues east of here.”
“Will they allow us to take some of it?”
“I hope to persuade them,” Padre Moreno said. “The gold will be used for the good of their people, to help pay for the buildings here, and obtain seedlings for orchards, and furnish them with livestock and clothing. We must never let them think we’re taking any of it for ourselves. We’ve repeatedly emphasized that we’re the poorest brothers of Christ and have taken a vow of personal poverty, as did Saint Francis.”
“Those soldiers from Tubac haven’t taken any such vow.”
Moreno nodded. “That’s why we must keep knowledge of this gold a strict secret. If it becomes generally known, there will be trouble. Many treasure seekers will flock to this area, and cause more trouble for the Indians. And the Spanish crown will demand their twenty percent tax as well.”
Padre Moreno squatted to roll up his blanket from the straw pallet on the hard-packed earth floor. “I’m ready to go, if you have the rest of our things packed. It would be wise to take two burros and load one of them only with kegs of water,” he continued. “Even though it would mean one more animal to water, we can replenish our supply in the Tinajas Altas mountains.”
“The High Tanks,” Padre Diaz repeated. “Is it likely they will be dry this time of year? We’ll be gambling our lives that those tanks won’t fail us.”
Padre Moreno shrugged. “Nothing in life is certain. We’ll ration our water until we get there, in case those rock hollows are dry.”
A dark face appeared at the doorway. “Padre . . . boat is ready.”
“Thank you, Diego. As soon as we load another animal with water, we will start.” Moreno looked out to see a second Indian, with long black hair, wearing only a loincloth and moccasins, striding toward the Colorado River where a log raft was waiting to take them across to the east bank.
Two days later the four men broke camp and started up a narrow cañon into the Castle Dome Mountains jutting up abruptly from the desert floor. They traversed the long slant of a narrow cañon that led to vertically tilted slabs of rock several hundred feet above. The slopes were speckled with various species of cacti, and forty yards to one side were thick, cracked layers of black lava where some ancient volcano had spewed forth. Padre Moreno wished he had a better knowledge of geology. Scientists were studying the formation and re-formation of the earth’s crust, but there was still much to be learned.
The two priests wore straw hats as protection from the sun, and sandals spared their feet from the sharp rocks and heated ground. As Padre Moreno watched the brown backs moving up the cañon ahead of him, he wondered again how these Indians were able to withstand the blazing sun on their bare skin without severe burns. Maybe layers of dirt and dust intervened. Or, more likely, many generations of living in this climate had inured their race against the ravages of solar rays. Unsuccessful efforts had been made to introduce clothing to them. At least white shirts to the men. The women seemed already to cover themselves with a degree of modesty.
The night before, around the campfire, with the younger priest translating as best he could, Padre Moreno had told Diego that any gold they acquired would be used for the benefit of the tribe. He wasn’t sure to what degree these two Yumas grasped the concept of money and the economy of buying and selling, but he knew they did use some system of barter. And they must know that gold was valuable, or they wouldn’t keep its location secret. It was shiny, it was malleable, it was durable, and, from what they knew, it was in limited supply—the perfect material for making jewelry.
Padre Moreno felt rested and confident. The two Yumas apparently were making no attempt to disguise their route, or otherwise confuse the Franciscans about the location of the gold—a tribute to the Indians’ trust of the priests.
They hiked another mile, each priest leading one of the loaded burros. Finally Diego stopped and indicated they were to leave the animals in the shade of some boulders, and the men would go on. The Indian led the way, climbing what he perceived as a steep trail, but one that Padre Moreno could not have picked out. He watched where the Indian put his feet and followed his steps. His breath came in labored gasps, and he was on the point of requesting a rest stop, when the two Indians paused on a narrow ledge.
“This way,” Diego said, pointing at a vertical, dun-colored wall. He ducked low and crawled into an opening between two V-shaped slabs of rock. The other three followed. Ten feet in, the opening widened so the men could stand. The blazing sun was only a twilight filtering through some overhead fissures. They paused to let their eyes adjust to the dimness. Moreno breathed deeply of the cooler air.
Then the Indians led the way to the back of the twenty-foot chamber. Diego moved to one side and pointed. A tiny shaft of sunlight slanted down through the gaps in the tilted rock slabs. The light reflected dully off a vein of rotten white quartz. Imbedded in this quartz, like lacy filigree, were webs and strands of pure gold.
Padre Moreno tried not to show his surprise, or to act as if he were venerating this yellow metal as he carefully touched it with his fingertips. It was no illusion.
Diego grunted and stepped forward to chop off a fist-size chunk of the gold-laden quartz with his stone axe. He handed the ore to Moreno for closer examination.
“This rock was molten at one time,” Padre Diaz said, crouching by the vein. “Forced up from deep in the earth by hot gases. See how it appears to have had bubbles in it?”
Padre Moreno was surprised. What were they teaching besides theology in the seminaries of Spain these days?
The vein of quartz was at least two feet wide and of unknown depth. The floor was littered with chips of rock where someone had been hacking at the vein and the rock around it. The Yumas had probably been mining this in small amounts for years.
Padre Moreno was trying to form a request to take some of the gold with them when he heard a scuffling noise behind him and Padre Diaz yelled. Moreno started to turn when something struck his temple and he knew no more.
Twenty minutes later Diego and Bartholomew were leading the two burros down the cañon toward the lower desert. The Quechans, as they called themselves, carried bloodied stone axes in their belts.
Before they reached their village on the west side of the Colorado River next day, their tribesmen had killed fifty whites, plus two more priests farther up-river at the new San Pedro y San Pablo de Bicuner mission, and captured all of the Spanish women and children. The event came to be known in history as the Yuma massacre.
CHAPTER ONE
July 6, 1878
Tumacacori Mission Ruins
Arizona Territory
Daniel Mora sensed he was being stalked by the deadliest predator in North America—the Apache warrior.
He shifted the Marlin carbine to his left hand and cat-footed from the cover of a palo verde tree across a bright patch of moonlight into the inky shadow of an adobe wall that surrounded the church graveyard. Holding his breath, he listened intently for sounds of pursuit. Nothing—only the thumping of his own heart in his ears. Not even the rustling of mesquite bushes. A westerly breeze had died at dusk, leaving a sluggish blanket of heat smothering the valley. He’d paused at the Santa Cruz River, several hundred yards away, to fill his canteen, then crept in a circuitous route to the protection of the mission wall, moving silently, pausing often, staying in the deep shadows of the desert shrubbery.
Even though he’d parceled out his stamina, he was nearly spent. Two hours before sunset, he’d crossed the unseen border from Sonora, pacing himself with a steady, ground-eating lope that ate up the miles. High desert moccasins, folded down and tied just below the knee, protected his legs and feet from catclaw, prickly pear, and cholla. Carbine in han
d, a single bandoleer of ammunition across his chest, and a half-full canteen bouncing from a shoulder strap were his only possessions as he’d jogged and walked the last fifteen miles, arriving at the Santa Cruz River just at moonrise.
Over the final dozen miles his feet had been driven by fear. Just at sundown he could’ve sworn he caught a glimpse of a brown shoulder disappearing behind a sandy hillock fifty yards to his right. But he couldn’t be sure. And it was that doubt, growing with the lengthening shadows, that had spurred him on. Adrenaline pumping, lungs heaving, he’d half expected to be downed by a bullet or an arrow at every step.
He knew the Apaches, when stalking prey, could blend into the dun-colored desert landscape like a rattler or a lizard. If they wanted to remain invisible, no white man would ever catch sight of them. That’s why Mora began to doubt his eyes. If that flicker of a naked body he thought he’d seen was really a stalking Apache, the appearance had to be deliberate.
Maybe a couple of warriors had bolted the reservation, gotten liquored up on tiswin, and decided to ambush a lone white man for sport or vengeance. Sinewy, bandy-legged, and tireless, an adult Apache male in top condition could run all day without tiring. Only the legendary Tarahumaras of Mexico were better distance runners. They called themselves the Raramuris, but, by any name, they were not as warlike as the Apaches, and Mora had nothing to fear from them. In fact, a friendly Tarahumara Indian had recently nursed him back to health from a near-fatal rattlesnake bite. The man knew only a few words of English. While a grateful Mora was preparing to leave the Tarahumara’s camp in the Sierra Madre Mountains, his benefactor had uttered only two words, but those words were clear as a silver bell, dire as a crack of thunder. The lean Indian had pointed north toward the border and said: “Apache!” Then he’d swept his arms in an all-encompassing circle and said: “¡Bandidos!” The Apache devils were somewhere near the border, and the roving bands of Mexican outlaws could be expected anywhere.
Mora’s stomach growled with the sound of a night-prowling cat, and he pressed a hand to his flat belly to stifle the noise that seemed loud in his own ears. A handful of mesquite beans he’d eaten ten hours earlier could not sustain his strength much longer.
