by Tim Champlin
“Getting too old for this,” he muttered. He was not deluding himself. At fifty-eight, he was well past his prime. But two years alone in the desert had restored his health and vigor and given him the endurance of a man half his age. The sedentary life and strain of civilized living would have killed him by now, he rationalized, as he waited for his breathing and heart rate to slow. Then he crept along the wall until he came to a pile of rocks and adobe bricks that had tumbled down, forming a break in the eight-foot wall. Picking his steps, he climbed noiselessly over the pile and found himself in the abandoned graveyard. He barely glanced at the mounds of rocks and weathered wooden crosses, silvered by the moonlight. The tall, dry grass whispered around his legs as he strode toward the ruins of the mission church bulking up before him. He passed to the side of the unfinished, circular mortuary chapel, then disappeared through the arch of the doorway into the church nave, hoping he wasn’t being watched by a pair of hard, obsidian eyes. He was becoming paranoid. But, better paranoid than dead, he reasoned. He paused in the blackness to listen once again, but heard only the sound of his own breathing, and the scuttering of disturbed mice or possibly a kangaroo rat on the stone floor. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the shapes of the moonlit windows high in the walls on either side, and a shaft of moonlight lancing through a gap in the roof near the sanctuary. He began to feel safer. If there were any Apaches on his trail, the interior of this church would make a good defensive position. He was still uncertain whether Indians of any tribe fought at night. He fervently hoped it was against Apache belief. But hoping would not keep him alive.
He padded toward the transept and looked left and right. From previous visits, he knew the solid wooden door on his left led to the sacristy, and the gaping arched doorway to the right led out into the moonlight. Since this church was abandoned thirty years before, the wooden pews, doors, altar, pulpit, and choir loft had been appropriated for firewood or building material for other dwellings. Sixty years had passed since Mexico had won its independence from Spain and secularized the Franciscan missions. The Church had withdrawn the brown-robed priests, and the Mexican government had sold the mission lands into private hands. With the passage of time, the unfinished structure was slowly melting back into the earth from which it was formed. It would take at least another 100 years, he guessed, since only part of the building was made of adobe. The rest, including the foundation, was fashioned of stone, the walls several feet thick. The Franciscans had directed the Tohono O’odham, or Papagos, as the newcomers called them, in building a church that would last. They had brought limestone from quarries thirty miles away, heated it in limekilns, then crushed it into powder to make cement that held these massive walls together.
He turned and made his way to an alcove in the left wall near the front, taking care not to step into any of the holes left by treasure seekers. Did he dare strike a light? It was unlikely a small candle, set deep in a wall niche, could be seen by anyone outside. He placed his carbine on the floor and fumbled in his pants pocket for a block of matches he’d dipped in wax for waterproofing. Since he was afoot, the matches were the only thing, besides his rifle, bandoleer, and canteen, he’d carried away from the Indian’s camp. He broke off one of these Lucifers from the block and scratched it against the plaster inside the niche. A sulphurous smell bloomed out with the smoke as it flared up. He touched the flame to a wick in a red glass vigil light in front of a carved, wooden stature of St. Francis of Assisi. In the early 1200s, this man had founded the Order of Friars, the brown-robed Franciscans who, centuries later, succeeded the Society of Jesus—the Jesuits—in Spain’s efforts to Christianize the Indians of the New World.
All this went quickly through his mind as he dropped to his knees before the statue. He thrust a hand into his canvas pants and withdrew a small object, placing it at the base of the two-foot statue. The three-inch object was a crude replica of a human forearm. “Carved it out of a root. It was the best I could do with that belt knife,” he murmured, as if St. Francis did not understand his silent prayer of thanks. The carving was a milagro, literally, a miracle. But the word had taken on the meaning of the object as well. He was not petitioning the saint for strength of arm, but was showing gratitude for the saint’s help in curing the snakebite in his left arm, thanking him for bringing the Tarahumara Indian to him just when he might have died from the rattler’s venom. As he’d been losing consciousness on the mountain trail, Mora had uttered an urgent prayer to St. Francis. And, when he awoke, he’d found himself under a shady rock overhang and a lean Indian massaging the muscles of the arm down toward the hand. Then his rescuer had made a poultice to draw out the poison from the twin puncture wounds. He recalled the Indian giving him something bitter to drink, but remembered nothing more for many hours.
He pushed back the sleeve of his thin cotton shirt. In the flickering light of the votive candle, the wound and the surrounding tissue appeared swollen and red. But there was no fever in it, and he felt he was out of danger. Whatever the Indian had done had brought him back to health.
Mora said a quiet prayer of thanks to God and St. Francis for bringing him the unknown Indian. They’d done a superb job restoring him; no man in other than perfect health could have covered seventy miles, afoot, in the past three days, living off the desert land.
Was the use of a milagro more a superstition than a Catholic sacramental? He’d adopted the custom from his Mexican friends. Surely a carved offering in the form of the affected body part was no different than the use of incense to symbolize the rising of prayers at benediction. He glanced again at the painted wooden figure. Some unknown Spanish artist had sculpted his perception of the saint, giving him very severe features and a pointed black beard. Based on the happy friars he knew, Mora judged the founder of their order had probably been a generous, jovial man in his lifetime.
Focusing his wandering thoughts, he said the Lord’s Prayer, then rose from his knees with a groan, staggering slightly. Fatigue was draining strength from him like water pouring out of a canteen. Should he leave the candle burning? No. Tonight, darkness was his friend. Besides, the candle should be saved for the next pilgrim who happened along. He blew it out. Glancing aloft at the unseen beam ceiling, he picked up his carbine and felt his way toward the dark alcove of the baptistery and a good, safe place to sleep. Then he changed his mind. Better to be out in the main church in case he had to make a quick getaway. The moon had moved, and now, through a gap in the roof, was illuminating the concave wall behind the vanished altar. Part of a mural still showed faintly on the wall that was pockmarked with bullet holes. In spite of the damaged interior of the old church, it still gave off a sense of peace and calm.
Mora walked softly to a spot where he would have access to a side door if needed, then lay down on the floor along the base of the wall, his rifle beside him. The worn stones felt cool through his thin shirt. The thick walls and high ceiling kept the interior of the building several degrees cooler than the outside air.
What of the morrow? The first thing was to find food. Then, it was another forty or fifty miles north to the village of Tucson where he’d catch the westbound stage. But how? He had no money—not a penny. And except for his rifle and knife, which he wouldn’t part with, he had nothing to trade for stage fare, lodging, or food. His whole outfit had been lost when his loaded burro had shied at the rattler, slipped on loose shale, and tumbled over a sheer 300-foot drop into the cañon. Not even the Tarahumara, who’d saved his life, would attempt a climb into the bottom of that gorge to retrieve the pots and pans and camp gear. The Indian wouldn’t risk his life even for the small rawhide poke of dust and pea-size nuggets Mora had laboriously collected the past several weeks while prospecting the Sierra Madre wilderness. He’d indicated by signs and the Spanish word, “oro,” that the Indian, whose name he approximated as Quanto, could have anything on the mule. But Mora couldn’t tell from Quanto’s impassive expression whether or not he understood, or was even interested.
<
br /> It wasn’t his gold and gear that he regretted losing, but rather his burro, Atlas, his closest friend, confidant, and companion for nearly two years. He hoped the fall had killed the burro instantly, so the animal hadn’t suffered the agony of broken bones and internal bleeding injuries. Peering from the rocky ledge the next day, he thought the burro, far below, probably hadn’t moved after he hit bottom.
Mora had been leading the beast around a bend in the trail when he’d nearly stepped on the thick-bodied diamondback sunning itself. The startled reptile had thrown itself into a coil and struck, hitting Atlas in the foreleg. The burro had squealed and lunged backward, yanking the lead rope from Mora’s hand, then plunged over the side. Mora had been thrown flat on his face, and, the next second, the snake struck again, puncturing his forearm. Perhaps Mora was alive now because most of the venom had been injected into the burro.
It all played out in Providence, somehow. He groaned and rolled over, pressing his cheek against the cool floor. He was so tired he could’ve slept on a bed of nails. Yet, he knew he wouldn’t rest well this night. A part of him would stay alert to any danger. It was now that he really missed Atlas. His burro was his guard, his watchman who would bray loudly at any approaching creature, human or animal. With the burro nearby, Mora had always slept soundly. Atlas, his patient, long-eared friend who he’d come to love and value more than any human; Altas, the furry, four-legged creature who could communicate without words; Atlas, who bore a black cross on the gray fur of his back as part of his natural coloring. Mora smiled faintly, recalling a Mexican acquaintance who’d assured him the cross was a reward God had bestowed on the lowly beast because one of Atlas’s ancestors had carried Jesus into Jerusalem on the first Palm Sunday.
It was his last thought as he slipped into exhausted oblivion.
Unknown to him, a near naked figure glided noiselessly through the broken archway into the darkness of the church.
CHAPTER TWO
Daniel Mora opened his eyes to complete darkness. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep. But apparently the moon had set; no outside light filtered through the gaps in the building.
What had awakened him? Maybe a mouse scampering over his body, he guessed, or some unusual sound. All he knew, as he rolled onto his back, was that he’d been lying on the cool stone floor long enough to stiffen badly. The muscles of his shoulders and legs protested at being asked to shift position. Body too old . . . trail too long, he thought, stretching his limbs and staring up into the darkness. Living rigor mortis. As a younger man, he’d welcomed the soreness from rough games and exercise. It’d made him feel vibrant, alive. Now it was just pain—an inconvenience that he required longer to recover from. Nature’s way of preparing him to crave the long rest of death.
He closed his eyes and was relaxing into a doze when a chirping whistle came from outside. Some early-rising desert bird, sensing the coming dawn? He’d never heard that bird call before, and sunup was more than an hour away. He’d sleep a little longer, then be up and moving.
Thump! Clang!
He sprang up at the sound of a scuffle several yards away, snatched his carbine, and jacked a round into the chamber.
“Mora!”
The hoarse whisper sent the hair prickling on the back of his neck. Mora hesitated, heart racing, eyes wide, seeing nothing in the darkness. He crept several feet to his left and flattened his back against the wall, then swept the gun barrel in an arc, contacting nothing.
“Mora!”
He heard shuffling steps and someone breathing.
“Who is it?”
“No shoot!” the voice pleaded.
Mora edged away from the sound until he felt a break in the wall that led to the side door. Then he slipped around the corner and darted toward the faintly visible archway. He would take his chances in the open, and he sprang through the doorway, covering the outside ground quickly, breathlessly. It was deserted. A few faint stars dotted the pre-dawn sky. It was still too dark to see anything but general shapes.
“Show yourself!” He kept his voice low, intense.
“No shoot!” the voice said again from inside. The inflection had a vaguely familiar ring. Then Mora saw a white blob appear in the black doorway. He shivered as if the spirit of St. Francis himself was emerging from the side door of the ruined church. He held the Marlin at hip level, finger tightening on the trigger.
“Mora, no shoot!” the apparition repeated as it came toward him.
Sudden relief flooded over him, and he felt weak. He eased down the hammer and lowered the rifle. It was Quanto, the Tarahumara Indian who’d saved his life. He was wearing a white shirt that was flapping open and had given him the ghost-like appearance. Had he just slipped into the garment in order to be seen and recognized?
“Quanto! By God!” Mora breathed. “You scared hell out of me!”
Dawn was graying objects around them.
The Indian put a finger to his lips for silence. As he drew near, Mora saw a bloody knife in his hand. Quanto pointed toward the church. “Apache!” He spat to one side as if the word had a bad taste. He jerked the edge of his hand across his throat, and Mora understood the sounds of the scuffle. Quanto had descended like a fierce guardian angel to cut down the Apache attacker, saving Mora’s life by feet and seconds. That was twice the Tarahumara had averted the hand of death.
After a quick look around, Quanto silently glided away toward the shelter of the mesquite. Mora followed him more than 100 yards into the thick growth before the Indian began to circle back toward the Santa Cruz River. Mora was curious but gave the Indian credit for knowing the situation. From the way Quanto moved, they were not out of danger.
They halted in thick trees at the edge of the stream. Summer monsoons had not yet dumped their floods over the valley to swell the marshy Santa Cruz that was fed by cienagas and springs.
“La agua es la sangre de la tierra,” he muttered the old saying. “Water is the blood of the land.”
Quanto, who apparently understood Spanish, nodded as he gazed around intently.
The saying was certainly true here. Only because of this river had the Jesuits, and later the Franciscans, been able to locate a mission on a former site of a Tohono O’odham village. Acequias, small irrigation ditches, had supplied the priests and Indian converts with water to nourish vast orchards and fields that supported the compound. More than 1,000 residents, along with herds of cattle and sheep, were protected by Spanish soldiers located only four miles away at Tubac. Mora wished there were Spanish soldiers nearby now.
A light dawn breeze stirred the leaves of a giant cottonwood. The rustling leaves would mask sounds of anyone approaching. Mora saw and heard nothing unusual, but apparently Quanto’s senses were sharper. The Indian crouched and led the way to the marshy edge of the stream. They waded into the water, Mora’s moccasins sinking into the soft muck. They pushed their way, waist-deep, into the thick willows; the water was pleasantly cool.
Quanto, leading, let himself sink until only his head was above water. Mora did the same, thinking that he needed a good bath. This would soak the sweat out of his clothing. He was glad his matches were waterproofed with wax, and the cartridges sealed. He knelt on one knee, rifle submerged, his head just out of the water. The reeds were so dense he could barely see Quanto’s dark hair and features only three feet away.
They remained motionless for several long minutes as dawn silently filtered through the foliage. Mosquitoes began to whine around their ears. Birds awakened to the new day. He recognized the call of the cactus wren. Through a break in the willows, he saw a killdeer strutting along the riverbank.
He sensed movement and shifted his eyes without turning his head. Two half-naked Apaches, one wearing a red headband, were approaching, pointing toward the ground. The sight of stalking death tensed Mora’s stomach. The trackers disappeared behind the thick foliage, but their low, guttural voices were close. They halted where he and Quanto had waded into the marshy stand of willows.
>
Before Mora could even speculate on their next move, he heard the clicking of hammers being drawn to full cock. The serene dawn was shattered by the roar of gunfire. Large-caliber slugs ripped through the reeds near his head. The Apaches were firing blindly into the willows, whooping and laughing as if drunk.
Quanto ducked beneath the surface and Mora saw the surge as the Indian pushed off the bottom toward deeper water. Mora drew a deep breath, submerged, and followed, holding himself under by grabbing the thick reeds at their base and pulling forward, squirming through thick underwater growth, the awkward rifle impeding his progress. He heard the zip and pop of bullets striking the water all around, their force quickly diminished.
Eyes shut, holding his breath, he kicked and clawed toward the safety of the channel. He knew their bodies were churning up the shallow water, bending the willows and leaving a plain trail for the murderous Apaches to fire at. Maybe they’ll think we’re thrashing in our death throes, he thought. Then he felt the slight tug of a deeper current as the reeds thinned and disappeared.
Heart thumping, he stroked forward, lungs burning for air. How much longer could he hold on before he had to surface and breathe? A kicking foot brushed his face, as Quanto swam ahead of him. Mora slitted his eyelids, but could see only a very faint gray. He stroked ahead with one hand, gripping the cumbersome carbine with the other. But every foot, every yard he made would take him farther out of danger. Maybe they can see the wake of our swimming bodies in this shallow river, he thought. He pictured them walking leisurely along the bank, waiting for him to surface so they could blow his head off. The thought made his pulse race, quickening his need for oxygen. Mora decided he’d better be ready to come up shooting. But he’d have to be able to stand on the bottom to brace himself, so he prayed the wet rifle would fire. Remembering there was a shell in the chamber, he thumbed back the hammer underwater.
