The Blaze of Noon

by Tim Champlin

  Quanto’s lung capacity was much greater than his own, but Mora forced himself to stay under until he began to see spots before his eyes and his lungs were afire.

  Finally he could stand it no longer and let his body’s natural buoyancy drift him upward, trying not to splash as his face and head broke the surface. He gasped, filling and emptying his lungs as he quickly scanned the bank. No Apaches in sight. Thick bushes and trees bordered the stream.

  He bounced gently along in the chest-deep current for several yards. Then Quanto surfaced ahead of him. The Indian signaled for them to stay in the water and keep going. They waded and drifted in the shallow stream for another quarter mile, scanning both banks, alert to any movement. But they saw no one. Mora began to think the two Apaches had actually been drunk and had just shot at them for entertainment or sport. But then he thought it odd they’d be drunk at dawn. Maybe they’d been drinking most of the night. The Apache who’d crept into the church was either planning a dawn attack, or rumors of Apaches not fighting at night were false.

  Even though the church had been long abandoned and the Blessed Sacrament removed, it seemed almost sacrilegious for a dead body to lie inside while coyotes, wolves, or buzzards came to devour the carcass. Perhaps the two stalking Apaches, believing he and Quanto were dead, had gone back to retrieve the body.

  By silent consent they waded ashore at a point where the bank was clear of vegetation. While Quanto’s keen eyes scanned the surrounding terrain for any sign of the enemy, Mora shook the water from his rifle as best he could. The desert air would dry it quickly. He made a mental note to clean and oil it when he reached Tucson.

  Apparently they were safe for the time. Now Mora took the lead, motioning for Quanto to follow, and started walking north, across the desert, lining up a range of western mountains as a compass reference. Quanto carried a canteen, knife, and nothing else. He was wearing moccasins, tan pants, and a white shirt. A blue headband held his long hair out of his face.

  Mora had lost his hat, so ripped a sleeve off his shirt and wrapped it into a makeshift turban around his wet hair as protection from the fierce June sun. He was uneasy in the thick mesquite where he couldn’t see far in any direction. Too much danger of ambush. He’d feel much better when they reached open desert, away from the dense chaparral.

  They’d traveled a mile when Mora caught sight of the church’s unfinished bell tower a half mile to their right as they passed it again. Since their initial flight, they’d nearly circled the compound.

  Mora walked swiftly, eyes darting left and right. Suddenly he saw a slight movement and his heart leaped. He swung up the carbine just as an Apache leaped from the cover of an arroyo and fired a revolver. The bullet kicked sand at Quanto’s feet, and he dove to one side as Mora’s Marlin exploded from hip level. The Apache spun back, dropping his pistol, and staggered out of sight into the wash. Mora dashed to his left, into the mesquite, trying to get down the arroyo farther along to see how many attackers there were. A half minute later he caught sight of two brown bodies disappearing at a stumbling run over a hillock toward the church. One Apache with a red headband was helping the wounded one. Mora recognized the warrior as one of those at the river. Apparently they were the same two assailants.

  He looked around. Quanto was crouching beside him, holding the pistol the Apache had dropped. He was blowing sand out of its mechanism. It was an old .36-caliber Colt percussion revolver that had been converted to fire cartridges. Five of the six cylinders were still loaded. By downing the Apache before he could get off a second shot, Mora had saved Quanto’s life, partially repaying the debt he owed this Indian.

  “Damned good thing most Apaches aren’t good shots with handguns,” he said, knowing Quanto probably didn’t understand him. “Let’s go.” He jumped up and jogged away, dodging this way and that, finally breaking clear of the dense mesquite to the more open terrain that was dotted with saguaro, Spanish bayonet, and a variety of desert growth.

  “I’d bet they won’t be after us now,” he said over his shoulder.

  Quanto was watching their back trail. The Tarahumara likely had more experience with other Indians, but, in brushes with roving Apache bands in the past, Mora had discovered they would not doggedly continue a pursuit or siege if odds didn’t favor swift victory. He suspected that, of the three warriors on their trail, one dead and one wounded was enough to discourage pursuit. In the long war of attrition with whites and Mexicans, the various Apache bands were hit-and-run guerilla raiders. Much fewer in number, they couldn’t afford to take many losses. He had no idea why these Apaches would be after him; he had nothing to steal except his rifle and ammunition. But that was enough—along with the pleasure of watching another white-eyes die.

  He jogged across the relatively flat desert terrain, automatically dodging the thorniest of the desert shrubs, aware that his soaking in the river had softened the hard soles and button toes of the high desert moccasins.

  During the next half hour, he felt himself growing less cautious as they put more distance between themselves and the ruined mission with no sign of pursuit.

  Suddenly he gasped as a thorn stabbed through the softened rawhide and buried itself in the ball of his right foot. The sharp pain caused him to stumble forward and fall to his hands and knees. He sat up and gingerly pulled off the tall moccasin that was turned down at the top and tied around his calf. A two-inch thorn was extracted with the moccasin, leaving a tiny, purplish hole, throbbing like a toothache.

  Quanto was on one knee, hardly winded. Mora reached down and gently squeezed the ball of his foot to force out a few drops of blood. He wiped it off and slid the moccasin back on. The rawhide was drying rapidly. That thorn would probably have penetrated a cavalry boot, he reflected, wondering how much the pain would cause him to favor the foot when they started on.

  But for now, they silently consented to take a breather. Quanto stood up and scanned their back trail, then checked the loads in his captured Apache pistol. Since they could barely communicate with words, Mora was left to wonder why this stranger from another culture had taken it upon himself to protect the aging white prospector. The Tarahumaras were a peace loving people he’d been told. But, being forced into the mountains by invading tribes and whites had conditioned them to be tough and resilient. Mora thought Quanto’s people would be resentful of any white men who wandered into the rugged Sierra Madre.

  As his excitement ebbed, Mora sagged, completely fatigued. The past three days of traveling afoot in the desert heat, the pre-dawn escape, the near miss in the river, another close call with the stalking Apaches, followed by a half hour of jogging had taken their toll on his middle-aged body. Most of the time he ignored the effects of the creeping years, assuming his mind and iron will could overcome any physical weaknesses. But now he wasn’t so sure.

  Quanto reached under the flap of his shirt pocket and produced two short sticks of jerky, holding one out. Mora nodded his gratitude to the provident Indian and bit into the river-softened dried meat. Likely goat, but the salty, stringy meat was the most delicious food he’d ever tasted. He tried to eat it slowly and savor it, to fool his stomach into thinking it was full when he finished, since this was all he was likely to have for some time to come.

  He sat in the shade of a mesquite, chewing on the jerky and studying the Indian’s impassive features. The whiskerless, leathery face might belong to a man of thirty-five—or fifty. Mora wished they could speak to one another. Who was this Indian, anyway? Why had he twice rescued a strange white eyes? Treating him for snakebite was possibly only a humane act one man would do for another. But then to follow him seventy miles as an invisible protector. . . . It made no sense. During more than a half century of living, Mora had never encountered anything like it. He was eager to probe the Indian’s motivation. Was it for money? Mora had already made Quanto understand that he could have Mora’s outfit and what little gold it contained—provided the Indian could somehow salvage the pack from the dead burro in the
bottom of the gorge. Maybe Quanto thought Mora knew the source of much more of the yellow metal, and wanted to find the source. The Tarahumaras were a very poor people. And Quanto had not attempted to retrieve the pack, so he couldn’t know what was in it, despite Mora’s efforts to tell him.

  Mora looked away and chewed the jerky thoughtfully. Maybe the Indian had gone to the trouble of saving Mora from poison, and wanted to protect his investment of time and effort. Perhaps Quanto only wanted a shot at his ancient nemesis, the Apache. To discover the real reason, Mora would have to wait until he could find a Mexican to translate, since Quanto seemed fluent in Spanish, while Mora was not.

  They finished their meager snack. Instead of renewing his strength, the jerky had only stimulated Mora’s hunger. He was still aching, and extremely tired. He brushed away the small stones and stretched out in the shade.

  But Quanto said something and rose to his feet, pointing toward the distant, terraced mountains. Mora reluctantly pushed himself erect and followed as the Indian started off at a brisk walk. Evidently Quanto thought it was too early to rest.

  Where was the Indian going? Did he have some destination in mind? Mora was bound for Tucson, more than a day’s walk to the north. Currently they were angling slightly to the northwest.

  At first, Mora kept an eye out for rabbit or peccary—even a coati mundi—anything he might be able to shoot for food. As the day wore on and he saw nothing, he realized most desert mammals were either nocturnal, or hunted in the late evening and early morning to avoid the heat.

  The two men trudged along, mile after mile. Mora’s thorn-punctured foot finally settled into a dull ache. His legs moved automatically, while fatigue slowly drugged him into a rhythmic trance. His eyes, through slitted lids, were fixed on the bobbing white shirt a few yards ahead. The sun rose in its long arc, then began a slow slide down the western sky. No breeze fanned them. The heat built in the low desert until every breath seemed to sear the mouth and throat. Their clothing dried quickly, then the merciless sun began sucking moisture from their bodies.

  Now and then he swallowed a little from his two-quart canteen, but never took as much as he craved. He could have easily gulped down the remaining two or three pints without taking the spout from his lips. But the musty, tepid river water was more precious than liquid gold. It had to last an indefinite time. To run out of water here was to die. He hoped Quanto knew this area and was headed toward the next stream or tinaja. What irony—to survive snakebite and Apache knives and bullets, only to die an agonizing death of thirst.

  When he next looked up, the wrinkled, gray-green mountains were perceptibly closer, but still miles away. If he was oriented correctly, those were the Sierrita Mountains. It seemed every large or small hump or ridge of desert hills in the territory had a name. He recalled the parable of the rich man in hell looking across the great chasm to heaven, begging in vain for the poor man to dip his finger into water to cool his tongue. An apt image of his own situation, he thought, except that he still had hopes of reaching the cooler heights of heaven in the mountains. When he did, he would part ways with Quanto, then correct his own course for Tucson. He uttered a quick prayer to St. Francis to aid him.

  For now he must concentrate on conserving energy. Even though an older man required less fuel than a younger one, his strength had nearly run out. He felt disconnected from his feet and stumbled often. He was becoming light-headed, and his eyes refused to focus on the distant mountains. Contorted arms of nearby saguaro cactus seemed to reach out for him. Then everything tilted crazily in his vision and the sandy earth came up to smack him in the side of the face.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mora woke to the blessed relief of water on his face and neck, soaking his hair.

  Suddenly embarrassed, he struggled to sit up, but Quanto gently pressed a hand to his chest, and he lay back in the shade of the mesquite.

  “Don’t waste it,” Mora muttered.

  As if the Indian understood, he stopped dribbling water. Mora felt the cooling effect of the moisture evaporating quickly in the dry heat. Quanto put the spout of the canteen to Mora’s lips and allowed him to drink a little. The gamey water was heaven, and Mora grabbed for the canteen to tilt it up. But Quanto pulled it away, rocking back on his heels and watching.

  Mora had a dull headache, but suffered more from pangs of embarrassment for needing this Indian to tend him again. He squinted at Quanto who hunkered to one side, patiently watching and waiting, an inscrutable expression on his bronzed features.

  Mora closed his eyes, thinking the Indian resembled some red sandstone statue, immune to heat and thirst, as enduring as the ageless desert. Nature had designed him perfectly for this environment.

  Daniel Mora, on the other hand, was from a race and culture alien to the desert and could easily be destroyed by it. It wasn’t just the cool coastal mist of San Francisco he’d fled when he came east into the Arizona Territory. He would have gladly stayed in California, but for the humiliation and hardship he’d caused his family. He had hoped the desert would provide solace, a balm for his bruised spirit. But that had been two years ago, and still he’d found little peace. With the passage of time, his mind generally suppressed bad memories, retaining many of the good. But, whenever he was weak or tired, the horror of it came rushing back in all its painful frustration. Even now, as he tried to relax and recover from the humiliation of fainting from exhaustion and dehydration, the memory goaded him.

  He’d been a mid-level supervisor in the General Land Office, part of the United States Department of the Interior. He’d discovered that his regional director, a man appointed by President Grant, was selling off wholesale lots of California redwoods for his own profit. Mora had patiently gathered evidence over a period of weeks, and reported the man to Washington. The Secretary of the Interior, one of Grant’s so-called “Ohio gang,” had tried to suppress the information. But it had reached the newspapers and a scandal ensued. The illegal logging of public lands was halted. Under pressure from Congress, the regional director was fired, prosecuted, and sentenced to prison.

  Instead of being praised as a good public servant, Mora had been ostracized by his supervisors. His life was made miserable by constant harassments and official admonishments, supposedly for sloppy work. But he resisted pressure to resign. He was finally fired for insubordination when he attempted to defend himself against false accusations—fired within three years of retirement, without a pension. He’d sought solace from his wife and grown children as he cast about for some kind of job. But no comfort or understanding was forthcoming. His wife, Carrie, had wailed that he had no thought for his family’s welfare, that he should have kept his mouth shut. According to her, Mora had been a fool for doing what he considered his duty, had brought down disgrace and poverty on both of them as a result of his honesty. Even though their frame house was paid for and the bills were few, she acted as if she would have to go begging. He’d finally found a part-time job as a night watchman on the docks, but it paid little. His wife had taken a job cleaning houses of the Nob Hill wealthy. She and a grown son and daughter closed ranks and turned their backs on Daniel as if he’d ceased to exist. When Carrie deigned to address him, it was only to ridicule or find fault. At first he was treated as a fool, then a pariah.

  He shrank within himself, saying little, and endured it for a year. He’d even applied for another government job, this time as a clerk with the U.S. Customs Service, mainly to qualify for retirement. But he was turned down, and later discovered he’d been blacklisted by all federal agencies. He had no recourse, since Civil Service protection laws—to replace the old spoils system—were only beginning to be discussed in Washington.

  Finally he’d left it all behind. Quietly, at night, he boarded a train for Los Angeles, then a stagecoach east to Yuma. There he’d used the last of his funds to outfit himself with a burro and a grubstake, and struck off north along the Colorado River, living alone, prospecting, finding barely enough gold to buy a few stapl
es. At first he had feared the harsh wilderness, sleeping in the open with scorpions, tarantulas, sidewinders. Leery of Indians of any tribe, he carried a loaded rifle, traveling mostly at night in the searing deserts and sleeping by day in the rugged mountains. When he finally toughened up to the rigors of his new surroundings, he had time—lots of time—to ponder other things. And loneliness crept in.

  “Mora!”

  He opened his eyes. The shadows had lengthened; he must have dozed. Quanto was bending over him, black eyes solicitous. “Yeah.”

  “¡Vámonos!”

  The Indian assisted him to his feet, and handed him the carbine. Again, they started toward the mountain range.

  To keep himself going until they reached the mountains, Mora continued to sip water from his canteen. No sense conserving; he’d prefer to die later of thirst, rather than sooner.

  The sun finally dropped behind the mountains, leaving welcome shade. The tireless Tarahumara continued to lead. The unseen sun streaked the overhead blue with red and gold in the long summer evening. At last they reached and began to ascend the rocky slopes of the Sierritas.

  Mora drained his canteen, recalling he hadn’t noticed the Indian taking a drink in the past two hours. The climb took its toll on Mora’s tired legs and laboring lungs, and he stopped frequently to let the muscle ache subside while he breathed heavily.

  As twilight deepened, they’d ascended a third of the scarred face of the mountain. Quanto reached and entered a huge cleft in the rock, part cave, part vertical fissure. Heavier, cooler mountain air from higher up had begun its downhill slide to replace the lighter, heated air of the desert floor. This slight movement of wind fanned Mora’s face and brought the smell of dampness and mold from within the crevice.