The Blaze of Noon

by Tim Champlin

  Several yards inside, they reached the apex of the cleft under an overhanging rock and found a tiny spring trickling over moss-covered rocks.

  Quanto gestured for Mora to drink. Having filtered through tons of rock, the water was pure and sweet. Mora drank his fill, then stood and nodded approvingly. Quanto drank, then filled both canteens. The shadows of night were filling the hollows.

  Mora was weak from hunger, but there would be no food this night, unless Quanto could magically produce more jerky from his pockets. It was his knowledge of this spring that had provided succor. Tomorrow would take care of itself.

  They moved out to the flat rock at the edge of the cleft and lay down to rest. Mora placed his Marlin at his side, and Quanto still had the Apache’s Colt .36 with five shots remaining. In this remote location, they should be safe enough. Yet, any roaming Apaches would surely know of this spring as well. Mora lay down and exhaustion took him within five minutes.

  When he woke, stiff and sore, only a dim gray light was filtering into their shelter. Quanto still slept. Mora rose quietly, took his carbine, and padded outside, carefully climbing up where he could see down the long slope of the mountain that was covered with manzanita, scattered junipers, and dozens of plants he couldn’t identify. The sky above the horizon brightened by the minute. As he watched, miles of brushy desert he’d painfully traversed turned to a lighter gray. He took a good swig from his canteen and savored the stillness.

  Forty yards away, a slight movement caught his eye. When he focused in that direction, he saw nothing. Then it came again—a rabbit, hopping in and out of the brush, stopping here and there to nibble.

  Mora carefully brought up the carbine. With slow, deliberate motions he worked the lever and raised the curved butt plate to his shoulder. The crack of the Marlin echoed off the rocky hillside.

  As the sun cleared the horizon, Mora and Quanto hunkered by a small cooking fire, devouring succulent roasted rabbit—the first meal they’d eaten in more than two days. Yet, even the big jack rabbit failed to provide enough for two grown men. When they’d sucked the last of the bones and chewed every bit of gristle, Mora licked his fingers, realizing he was still hungry. But it was enough to fuel his body for more walking. Maybe they could bag additional game along the foothills.

  Mora stood up and took another long drink from his canteen. He wasn’t as familiar with this part of the territory, so had no idea where the next potable water might be. He carried a general map of the area in his head, and knew that Tucson lay north by east from where they stood. He was reluctant to abandon the spring Quanto had led them to, and wished for several more canteens to fill. But they had nothing to fashion another container.

  How to tell Quanto that his services were no longer needed? He tried by gesture, but the Indian emphatically shook his head, then pointed to himself and Mora, and thrust a hand in the direction of Tucson. His meaning was clear.

  “Well . . . if you have nothing better to do today. . . .” Mora walked back to the cool alcove and filled his canteen at the moss-covered spring. Quanto did the same and then kicked dirt on the embers of their fire.

  Mora grinned. He was used to speaking to his burro, who likely understood, but couldn’t respond in words. So he expected no reply when he said: “Tucson or Bust!” He stepped off toward that village, some thirty miles away.

  For the first hour, until his muscles were thoroughly warmed and the energy provided by breakfast took hold, Mora walked with pain and soreness. But he paid little attention, knowing it would pass.

  They traveled the foothills, descending into the flat desert only when the washes or tumbled boulders made the going tough.

  That evening, Mora, with his excellent shooting eye, bagged another rabbit—robbing some soaring hawk or owl of a meal, he remarked to Quanto. He continued talking to the Indian, never knowing how much or how little the Tarahumara understood.

  Supper was a repeat of breakfast, and just as delicious in spite of having no salt, or bread, or vegetables. But this wasn’t about taste or proper nourishment—it was about renewing their strength.

  Since they were out in the open that night, they alternated standing guard. There were no alarms. Except for the unseen life and death struggles among nocturnal hunters and the hunted, the night was devoid of danger to humans.

  Next morning the two men struck out in a more easterly direction, leaving the mountain chain behind. Their water gave out, but Mora used his belt knife to slice out pulpy chunks of barrel cactus. They squeezed the juice into their mouths. Not palatable, but at least wet and non-poisonous.

  In late afternoon, they reached the San Xavier del Bac mission. While Quanto waited patiently in a pew, Mora again gave thanks at a shrine of St. Francis. Mora had no idea what religious beliefs the Indian might hold. But Quanto apparently respected this old church as a place of special meaning, remaining respectfully out of the way. Mora did notice him gazing warily at two Yaqui Indians who came in and knelt at the altar rail.

  Outside, Mora and Quanto filled their canteens from a pump and, in the gathering dusk, started the last leg of their journey. By full dark, they reached the scattered hovels and adobe buildings of Tucson.

  Lacking money, Mora stopped at the nearest saloon to ask directions while Quanto remained discreetly outside in the dark. He did the same when they reached the stage office several blocks away.

  “Sumpin’ I can do for you?” A stocky agent in vest and white shirt came to the counter.

  Mora took a deep breath. The man exuded hostility. “When’s the next westbound stage?”

  The agent removed the stub of an unlighted cigar from his mouth. “Ten in the morning, if he’s on schedule.”

  “What’s the fare to Sand Tank station?”

  “Twelve dollars.”

  Mora hesitated, embarrassed to frame the next question. “I’m a little short of cash. Can I muck out your stables for a ticket?”

  “Figured you for a tramp when you come in here,” the agent said, glancing at the trail-worn clothes and scuffed moccasins. He started to say something else, but caught himself as his gaze rested on the carbine Mora carried.

  Mora felt his cheeks burning under the salt and pepper stubble. It was just this sort of treatment he’d left civilization to escape. He gave it one last try. “No odd jobs I could do for a bite to eat and a ticket?”

  “Well, you might just be in luck. My stable hand got drunk and fell off his horse last night. Broke his arm. You can have the job. Pitchforks and shovels just inside the barn door. A twelve-dollar ticket’s worth more than one night’s work, but, if you’ll oil all the harness hanging in the tack room, it’s a deal.” He turned away toward his desk. “By the way, if you need a place to sleep, you can bed down in an empty stall when you get done. But, no smokin’, mind you. Don’t want the place burned down.”

  “Thanks. You got a deal. Would a really good job buy me one extra ticket?”

  “Don’t push your luck.” The agent glanced around. Mora stood alone in the office. “Somebody else goin’?”

  “Maybe.”

  “The job ain’t worth that much, and the company don’t like me passin’ out free tickets.” He paused. “Tell you what . . . I’ll give you an extra silver dollar outta my own pocket if the job’s done right and you fork down some hay into them stalls, and pour a little grain into the feed boxes. There’s a big pile for the old straw and manure out back.”

  Mora nodded, knowing he was doing the man a favor. The agent would have had to do the dirty work himself, since it was unlikely another stable hand could be hired before the next stage came in. And who knew when one of the bosses might show up and find the stables a mess? Mora was aware the Texas and California Stage Company ran a tight operation. They had to be efficient to remain in business, since their coaches would inevitably lose this route to the Southern Pacific that had already built its line east as far as Yuma.

  As Mora turned to leave, satisfied he’d done the best he could, he paused by t
he pot-bellied stove and touched the blackened coffee pot. Still warm.

  “Go ahead and help yourself,” the agent said. “I’ll be throwin’ it out when I close up shortly.” He paused. “Besides, you look like you could use sumpin’ to perk you up.”

  Mora didn’t need a second invitation. It had been weeks since he’d had a cup of coffee. He filled a tin cup and swigged down the bitter, lukewarm brew, getting a mouthful of grounds in the process. Then he poured the dregs of the pot into the nearly empty canteen, and left.

  In the shadows at the corner of the adobe building, he handed the canteen to Quanto and pointed him toward the stables. The Indian took a gulp of the coffee and made a wry face. Mora grinned in the semidarkness; he’d finally gotten a reaction of some kind from his impassive traveling companion. But then Quanto decided the stuff wasn’t too bad and drained the canteen.

  “Reckon you did OK,” the station agent said, hands on hips and looking around at the clean stalls. Early sunlight was lancing through gaps in the board wall. “You ain’t lookin’ for permanent work, by any chance?”

  “No, thanks. Took us a good part of the night to finish cleaning and oiling all that harness.”

  “Well, here’s the silver dollar I promised you. Come on into the office and I’ll get that ticket.” He glanced at Quanto. “Hope he ain’t Apache.”

  “Tarahumara.”

  “What? Oh, that tribe down in Mexico?”

  “Yeah.” He offered no further explanation.

  They entered the office and the agent made out the ticket to Sand Tank station and handed it to Mora. “Probably better if your friend stays outside. He ain’t too good for my business.”

  Mora walked Quanto out onto the wooden porch, and indicated by sign for him to stay there.

  A big man, dressed in overalls, tan shirt, and sweat-stained hat, with leather gloves protruding from a hip pocket, passed them and entered the office.

  “This here’s my hostler, Bill Butler,” the agent said when Mora reëntered the room. “I’m goin’ over to the Shoo Fly Restaurant for breakfast. He’s in charge until I get back.”

  On impulse, Mora thrust out the silver dollar. “Since the Indian probably isn’t welcome over there, would you mind buying us something to eat and bringing it back?”

  “OK.” The agent took the money and left.

  By the regulator on the back wall, it was only eight-fifteen. They had at least a two-hour wait for the stage.

  “You know if the westbound stage is on time?”

  Butler was busy lighting a cigar. “Don’t have no notion. The Injuns cut the wire through Apache Pass every time ya turn around, so we don’t get a telegraph message if it’s delayed.” He blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling.

  Mora went back outside and the two men sat on the edge of the porch.

  Two matronly women in colorful shawls sauntered past. A white man rode by on horseback, kicking up dust. A horse pulling a light buggy swung up to the hitching rack and a young man in a white shirt and vest jumped down. He dragged a canvas sack, stenciled u.s. mail, from behind the seat and, slinging it over his shoulder, entered the office. A minute later, he hurried back out, perspiring in the morning heat, and climbed into the buggy, unwrapping the lines and slapping them over the back of the sorrel.

  Already full of self-importance and trying to impress his boss, Mora thought. How like him I was thirty years ago. Look at me now . . . an old desert rat reduced to mucking out stables for food and stage fare. In spite of the fact that he’d slept well on the clean-smelling, soft bed of hay, he was feeling sorry for himself. That usually happened only when fatigue made his problems seem insurmountable. He could have stayed home and been miserable. He hadn’t had to abandon his former life and become a hermit in this god-forsaken country to remain unhappy. Yet, he knew, deep down, the desert solitude had been good for him. This brief touch with civilization was what had soured his outlook, causing him to feel cheap again in the world of human commerce.

  “Quanto, I wish you and I could talk. Might find out why the hell you’re tagging along.” He shook his head. “Maybe I don’t really want to know. My faith in human nature couldn’t stand another jolt. I’d just as soon think of you as my altruistic guardian angel.”

  A half hour later, the station agent returned with two plates of fried ham and biscuits. The two men ate like starving wolves. Then Mora returned the plates to the restaurant, and the two men helped themselves to coffee inside the office.

  At twenty past ten, the stage rolled in, trace chains rattling, a cloud of dust boiling up behind it.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” The driver set the foot brake and climbed down, tossing the reins to the hostler, Bill Butler, while a Mexican boy jumped to unhitch the tired team.

  Two men alighted and handed down two women. One of the well-dressed couples, apparently husband and wife, were greeted by a man in a buckboard and driven away.

  Overhearing part of the conversation of the other two, Mora guessed they were casual acquaintances—through passengers who’d alighted to stretch their legs during the brief stop.

  Twenty minutes later, a fresh team was hitched and the driver was calling for everyone to board. Mora handed the driver his ticket. “My friend doesn’t have a ticket. I’m short of cash, but if you’ll take us both to Sand Tank Station, I’ll get the money there.”

  The driver set down his tin cup and brushed his sweeping mustache with the back of his hand. He looked Mora up and down, and then glanced at Quanto standing behind him. “We ain’t in the business of haulin’ passengers for free . . . especially redskins.”

  “Lila Strunk, the stationkeeper at Sand Tank, is a good friend of mine. She’ll lend me the fare.”

  “You know Lila?” The driver hesitated.

  The shotgun guard was stowing the mail sack in the boot and the Mexican boy held the stage door open for the woman passenger to reboard.

  “I’ve known her a while. She’s good for the money,” Mora insisted.

  “Hell, lots of people know Lila Strunk. Don’t matter about the fare. I got a refined white lady in that coach. I ain’t exposin’ her to no dirty savage.”

  “He could ride up top.”

  The driver strode toward the door, pulling on his calfskin gloves. He paused and turned back. “Didn’t you hear me right, mister? I said no!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “Driver, here’s fifteen dollars. That should cover this man’s fare, and you can keep the change. He’ll be my guest.”

  A well-dressed man with flaring, tawny mustache and thick blond hair stepped forward, holding his hat in one hand. For the first time, Mora took note of the male passenger who’d debarked from the stage and evidently overheard the conversation. He was lean, of middle height, dressed in a gray suit. Probably a youngish forty, Mora guessed.

  “Pardon the intrusion,” the stranger said, his blue eyes darting from Mora to Quanto. “Please accept my offer. No strings attached, as you Americans say. It’s been a long, dusty trip and I’d be glad for your company. Any stories you could tell to entertain me would more than repay me.” The man spoke with a British accent.

  “Why, thank you. I accept with pleasure.” Here was help from an unexpected source. “I’m Daniel Mora, and this is my friend, Quanto. He’s of the Tarahumara people in Mexico.”

  “I told you I ain’t haulin’ no Injuns!” the driver snapped. “He’d upset the lady passenger.”

  “What’s your name, sir?” the Englishman asked the driver. “I’m reporting you to the Texas and California Stage Company for refusing paying passengers on a run that’s half empty.”

  The driver clenched his jaw and said nothing. Finally he grunted, snatched the sawbuck and the five dollar gold piece, and hitched up his gun belt. “I’m holdin’ you responsible for him till he gets off at Sand Tank.”

  The Englishman stepped up to Mora. “Lyle Coopersmith,” he said, holding out his hand. “Happy to make your acquaintance.”

  “The pleasure is mine.�
�� Mora was at a loss for more words, but Coopersmith continued.

  “I believe we’re about to depart. We’ll talk on the way.”

  The driver and guard were already in their seats when the four passengers climbed aboard, Quanto last. As the Indian cleared the doorway, the driver cracked his whip. “Hyah!” The fresh team jumped ahead as one, and the Mexican boy holding the door sprang out of the way of the rear wheel, yelling at the driver in Spanish.

  Quanto was thrown into the lap of the woman passenger.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Mora said, helping the Indian to the seat facing the woman and Coopersmith. “Guess the driver was in a hurry to get going.”

  “Irritated with me, I’d say,” Coopersmith said, reaching to close the door that was swinging loose. The team was already at a dead run, and dust billowed through the open windows. Within 100 yards, the driver reined the team back to a walk.

  The dour-looking woman didn’t acknowledge the apology as she busied herself reshaping the crushed hat on her lap. She had gray hair and wore a black and lavender high-necked dress, in defiance of the heat. With that tightly laced corset, she probably has the endurance of a cavalry sergeant, Mora thought. He wondered how she felt about sharing the coach with three men—two of them very dirty, one of whom was an Indian. At least she was seated next to the courteous and clean Lyle Coopersmith in case she was worried the two new men might get rowdy. Mora wondered where the older woman, traveling alone, could be headed in this wilderness. Wherever it was, she was not about to enlighten them as she arranged herself more comfortably, planted her feet on her small carpetbag, and closed her eyes. The coach was only lightly rocking now on the rutted road. At the pace they’d started in this heat, the horses wouldn’t have made the next swing station.

  “Mora . . . Mora,” the Britisher said thoughtfully, fixing him with a frank gaze. “Sounds as if you must be of Italian descent.”

  “No. Mora and Muir are actually old Irish words for the sea. Some ancestor was evidently a seafaring man, perhaps a fisherman.”