The Blaze of Noon

by Tim Champlin

  For several minutes, they rode in silence. Then Weems retrieved his folded coat and fished out a fat cigar. “Since there are no ladies present, would you gents care for a smoke?”

  They all declined, and Weems proceeded to cup a match away from the breeze long enough to light up. “Ahhh . . . nothing like a good cigar to make a man feel better,” he sighed, blowing out a cloud of fragrant white smoke. “Probably one of three things in life worth bothering about.” He appeared disappointed that no one asked him to name the other two.

  Mora was not inclined to strike up conversations with strangers, but something had been eating at the back of his mind. He propped one ankle across his knee to help support the bedroll in his lap, and glanced sideways at P.J. Edwards. “I’m surprised there’s not a recording clerk in Castle Dome Landing,” he remarked.

  “To file claims?”

  “Yes.”

  “When the Castle Dome mining district was organized about fourteen years ago, the first recorder was Mister Ehrenberg at La Paz.”

  “The same Ehrenberg the town’s named after?”

  “So I’m told. I wasn’t here then, but some time later the job was turned over to the county court clerk in Yuma.” The taciturn Edwards said no more.

  “You’ve struck something up in those hills, Mora?” Lieutenant Briscoe asked with a smile.

  “Do I look like I’ve struck anything?” Mora asked. “I’m thinking ahead, in case. Have you ever known a prospector who didn’t think he was going to strike the mother lode tomorrow?”

  “I’ve never met an honest-to-goodness prospector before,” Lieutenant Briscoe said. “But I suppose a man has to have faith, or he’d wouldn’t keep at it.”

  “For me, it’s a way of life. Don’t know what I’d do if I actually struck it rich,” Mora said, reflecting on the veracity of his statement.

  The lieutenant and Weems chuckled. Edwards, poker-faced, stared straight ahead, apparently lost in thought.

  Mora had an idea of pumping Edwards for more information about the procedure for recording a claim, the cost, the maximum size, and other details he’d been wondering about. But Edwards didn’t appear inclined to talk, and Mora didn’t want to excite any suspicions that he was doing more than just making conversation.

  The shadows were stretching down the streets of Yuma when the stage rolled to a stop. The passengers climbed out and went their separate ways.

  Mora lugged his heavy bedroll and rifle to the nearest decent-looking hotel and checked in, paying in advance for one night with a tiny gold nugget. The hotel clerk kept a set of gold scales behind the counter for such customers, as did several of the saloons in town. Mora would later consider smelting his gold, and perhaps converting it to coin or paper money at some bank. For now, he’d keep his head down and spend tiny flakes and grains of the precious metal as he went.

  Three hours later, he lighted the lamp on the bedside washstand and gazed at himself in the mirror. He’d invested in a shave and haircut, a long soak in a hot tub at a Chinese bathhouse, and some new clothing from the mercantile. Feeling like a new man, he’d filled up with a well-done antelope steak, potatoes, and fresh bread at the best restaurant he could find. He rubbed his clean, smooth jaw and grinned at himself in the glass.

  “There are some good things to be said about civilization,” he muttered aloud. “I even smell good.”

  He yawned mightily and turned toward the bed. After sleeping on the hard ground, this cotton tick mattress would feel like a cloud.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Your name?” The thin clerk in the white shirt and black vest looked over his reading glasses, pen poised above a thick ledger on the wide counter top.

  “Daniel Mora. That’s M-O-R-A.”

  The clerk’s pen scratched across the page. “The name of the claim you wish to register?”

  “Uh . . . it has to have a name?”

  “It’s customary, especially if you have more than one, or if the property is later transferred.”

  “Sold, you mean?”

  “Sold, given away, willed . . . transferred in some manner.”

  “Umm . . . I’ll call it the Saint Francis.”

  The clerk duly recorded it, and re-dipped his steel pen. “How big?”

  “What?”

  “The dimensions of this claim.”

  “As big as the law allows.”

  “Is it located on a stream?”

  “No. In a higher elevation. A vein.”

  “The maximum for a vein of ore is three hundred feet from point of origin, including any branches or spurs,” the clerk recited in a bored tone.

  “The point of origin is where I staked it?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Good. That’ll do.” Mora snorted at the tone of this condescending, insipid clerk. He’d dealt with his share of them in the Department of the Interior.

  Mora’s new cotton shirt was beginning to itch in the morning heat, and he wanted to get this over with, pay his $2 fee, and escape into the fresh air outside. The stuffy office with the tall windows smelled faintly of cigar smoke.

  “To retain the claim, you must work it at least four days a month,”

  “Who’s going to check?” Mora grinned.

  The clerk stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. After a slight hesitation, the clerk said: “I trust you brought a sample of the ore.”

  Mora fished out a chunk half the size of a coffee cup. It was mostly quartz.

  The clerk glanced at it, then set it to one side.

  “You going to keep it?”

  “Yes. It becomes part of the record on file for comparison with other samples in case the claim is disputed.”

  “That happen often?”

  “More than you’d think.” The clerk made another notation. “Now, where is this Saint Francis claim located?”

  “In the Castle Dome Mining District.”

  “You must be more specific.” He swiveled his tall stool, pulled open a wide, flat drawer from a cabinet behind him, withdrew a large-scale map, and spread it on the counter. “Locate it for me on this.”

  Mora studied the detailed topographic map of the Castle Dome District. Without tracing anything with a finger, he used only his eyes to orient himself. He was not accustomed to viewing a layout from an overhead perspective, and found it difficult. Finally he thought he could follow his own route from the river to the approximate location of his newly named Saint Francis claim. “Not real sure, but. . . .”

  The clerk drew a deep breath and tapped the steel nib of his pen impatiently on the flip-top ink well. He glanced over his reading glasses at the wall clock, then at the next customer seated nearby, holding a sheaf of papers. “I also need a physical description of the landscape,” the clerk snapped.

  Mora continued to scan the map. “What for?”

  “In order to set this claim apart, to be sure it is not confused with any other, you must give me one or more identifiable landmarks,” the clerk said, as if instructing a dull-witted child.

  Mora looked up. He was fairly sure he could pinpoint his discovery location now. “Is this information public record?”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s no privacy, then, no protection from claim-jumpers . . . except for this?” He hefted his carbine that rested against his bedroll.

  “If it’s properly recorded, you have the force of law and the courts on your side in any legal dispute.”

  “ ‘The force of law and the courts,’ ” Mora repeated in a monotone, staring vacantly at the map, visions of his own honest career being crushed by that same authority. He reached over and picked up his chunk of ore. “Sorry I bothered you. Thanks for your time.”

  “What? You’re not going to register your claim?”

  Mora picked up his bedroll and rifle and was halfway to the door when the heavy ledger slammed behind him, cutting off a disgusted comment by the clerk.

  During the hot, dusty trip along the Gila Road to Sand Ta
nk station, Mora paid little attention to his surroundings. He’d stowed his Marlin in the boot since there wasn’t much elbow room inside the bouncing, swaying coach he shared with six others—a woman with an infant, two rough-looking civilians, a well-dressed man, and a lean, weathered man in buckskins.

  The stage departed at daybreak and stopped to change teams at isolated swing stations about twenty miles apart.

  During the lunch stop, Mora chose to decline the greasy offerings served up to the passengers. He poured himself a cup of coffee and strolled outside the stifling adobe building, preoccupied with thoughts of his new gold claim. Is it a mistake not to register it? He sipped the scalding brew, squinting over the lip of his cup at the parched, dun-colored landscape surrounding him. No. He had not made a mistake, he decided, thrusting all doubt aside. What was done, was done, and he’d live with it. As of now, he was doubtless the only living human who knew of this rich vein.

  A withering noon wind kicked up dust, and he paced to the lee side of the building where he slipped the twisted rope from his shoulder, lowering his bedroll to the ground. The ore was heavy. For the first time since leaving San Francisco in near despair two years earlier, he gave serious thought to taking as much of the gold as he could carry and moving to a more civilized part of the country where he could afford a life of leisure—possibly develop some new interests. A tempting thought, but, deep down, he knew it was only a daydream. Idle luxury was not for him. Why should he mark time until he died just because he had enough wealth to live without working? He’d come to think of himself as a nomad, a desert rat. There was something simple and unchanging about the desert that appealed to him. If the summer heat became unbearable, he could migrate to the high country to the north for a few months until the balmy winter returned to the Gila valley.

  Mora was aware the outdoor life and freedom from artificial concerns had made him as fit and lean and content as he’d ever been. He also realized he was closing in on sixty and his stamina was beginning to erode. Small, telltale signs of aging were making themselves known. He instinctively husbanded his strength. Soon he might have to trade his burro for a mule he could ride. For now, he’d travel as lightly as possible. With this in mind, he’d bought a pistol that morning in a Yuma hardware store. It was a Smith & Wesson new model number three, in .38 caliber. It retained the saw-handle grip of the Russian model, was nickel-plated, and had a five-inch barrel. All in all, a nice weapon, without excess weight or length, but powerful enough for defense and quick to reload with the top-break action.

  It was a shame he had to carry a gun at all, except for hunting, but he had no illusions about the lure of the yellow metal. Many men out there would doubtless kill him for much less than he was carrying in his bedroll at this moment. Would the claim marker of rocks and his handwritten note be enough to deter anyone who happened upon it? Not for a second. But the location was so remote, the chances of someone discovering the vein were minimal. Yet, he’d found it, so someone else surely could, especially since the Castle Dome mountains were being explored by more and more prospectors. The well-trained eye of some geologist brought in by mining interests might spot the likely-looking formation or rock strata and follow it up to the St. Francis. If a prospector noticed the rocks at the entrance had been disturbed, found the opening, and crawled inside, would he discover the vein beneath the dirt and the dead mesquite he’d used to disguise it? The claim marker he’d made would be a dead giveaway. Even if he’d recorded the claim, that wouldn’t deter most claim-jumpers who had little fear of getting caught in that remote region. Perhaps he should never have left until he’d taken his axe and hacked out all the gold ore Kismet could possibly carry. Then, no matter what happened, he’d have all he’d ever need, even if he had to put it in the bank or guard it night and day from robbers. He sighed and picked up his bedroll. The finding of gold was difficult; the keeping of gold was infinitely more challenging.

  A fresh team was hitched and the passengers straggled back into the coach. Ten minutes later they were bouncing and swaying, eastbound, along the road. Mora squirmed, trying to think of something pleasant.

  “Whoa!” The stage rolled to a stop in front of Sand Tank station and the driver set the foot brake. “Fifteen-minute stop to stretch!” he called down. “Supper stop at the next station.”

  The sun was well down the western slope of a brassy sky, but had lost none of its vigor as Mora stepped stiffly down from the coach, holding the door for the others. Not surprisingly he was the only passenger debarking at this out-of-the-way stop. He unlaced the leather cover over the rear boot to retrieve his carbine.

  He looked around for Quanto, but saw a white stranger unhitching the team.

  Then Lila Strunk emerged and called to the driver who was wiping his face with his bandanna. “Zeke, there’s some fresh coffee on the stove!”

  “Whew! Thanks, Lila, but I think I’ll pass. I’m already hot enough. I’ll just take a dipper of your spring water.”

  As Lila turned to go back inside, she caught sight of Mora. Her face lit up. “Dan!” She sprang forward and threw her arms around his neck. He dropped his bedroll and rifle and hugged her close for several long seconds. Her hair retained a faint scent of wood smoke.

  She pulled back to arm’s length. “You’re a welcome sight.” Her eyes swept him up and down, taking in his new sand-colored pants, blue checked shirt, and leather vest. For comfort and practicality, he still wore the Apache moccasins. “You even smell of bay rum.”

  “I reckon it’s some improvement over the last time you saw me.”

  “Come inside,” she said, taking his arm. “You want some fresh lemonade? How about a little supper? It’s nearly time, and I just fixed some bacon and flapjacks for myself. I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

  He thought she was chattering on rapidly as if to keep him from climbing back into the stage.

  “Slow down, Lila. I’m staying for a while. Where’s Quanto?”

  “Oh, he left for Yuma a few days back to work on the railroad.”

  “Is it that time already?” He felt foolish. “I’ve lost track of the date.” Truthfully he wasn’t even sure of the day of the week. “Who’s the new hostler?”

  “Jason Watley. The company furnished him to finish out here until we close down. I told ’em I had to have somebody reliable. He’s OK. Keeps mostly to himself. Knows his work.”

  Mora nodded.

  “I’ll bring some lemonade out here in the shade and we can talk. We’ll eat when the stage leaves.”

  Ten minutes later the driver was back on the box and slapping the reins over the animals. The coach lurched into motion and he swung the six-mule hitch out onto the Gila Road.

  “I won’t be seeing that sight much longer,” Lila said wistfully, leaning her elbows on her knees. She turned and forced a smile at him, tiny crow’s-feet fanning out from the corners of her eyes.

  He thought the fine wrinkles gave her an impish look, rather than an aging one. He could picture what she must have looked like thirty years before. He got up from beside her on the bench under the giant cottonwoods and paced back and forth. He’d been sitting too long in that cramped stage.

  “I’m glad you came back so soon,” she said.

  “Divine Providence.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He picked up his bedroll from the ground, placed it on the bench, and began untying the cord lashing. “I came to repay the loan you gave me,” he said.

  “I told you I was in no hurry for that.”

  He made no reply as he fished out the rawhide sack. “Hold out both hands.”

  She cupped her hands in front of her, and he dumped a pile of the gold-laden quartz into them. The small nuggets and chunks of rich ore overflowed her hands, spilling into her lap.

  “Oh . . . ! My God, Dan . . . ! What’s all this?” The shock seemed to take her breath.

  “That should repay the loan, with a little interest,” he said casually, enjoying her discomfitur
e. “Of course, you’ll have to convert it to dollars when you get to town.”

  “Repay the loan? Why, this is a fortune!” She lowered her voice and glanced furtively about. But the hostler was out of sight and sound near the stable. “Did you strike a gold mine?” She sounded incredulous.

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s exactly what I did.”

  While she gathered the pieces of rich ore onto her apron and gazed at the glowing heap, he gave her a brief summary of his discovery.

  “Finding lost treasure, just like we played at when we were kids!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing. She no longer looked tired or worn down by the heat. “It’s almost too good to be true. I suppose you registered the claim.”

  “I started to, but changed my mind.”

  “Why?”

  “Any outlaw could just walk into the courthouse and locate the latest finds by looking at the public records. It’s a claim-jumper’s paradise.”

  “I see. You think you’d have to stay at the site and guard it all the time?”

  “Or hire a tough armed guard,” he said. “Claim-jumpers don’t generally work alone. Without it being registered, I figure the remote location, the Apaches, the summer heat, and the fact that it’s hidden in a cleft of the mountain will keep it safe for as long as I’ll need it.”

  “Oh, the excitement and mystery of it! Wouldn’t you love to know what happened to those two poor Franciscans you found murdered?”

  “I sure would. From the looks of their sandals and robes, they’ve been there a very long time. If any early records of the missionaries exist, they’re probably in the dusty archives of Mexico City or Spain.”

  She gathered the sagging apron close to her and stood up. “Well, let’s go find a good place to hide this, and then have some supper. We can talk.”

  In spite of his earlier resolve, Mora felt drawn to this woman more than to any other he could remember. His shrewish, demanding wife had faded into his past—a past of pressure and worry and unjust accusations in a world he could hardly realize he’d ever inhabited. “Until I found it again, that mine had been safely hidden for at least a hundred years, and probably longer,” he said, following her toward the cottonwood log station.