The Blaze of Noon

by Tim Champlin

  Lila said nothing.

  “Do you have any guns here?” Anna asked.

  “The robbers took my Colt, but there’s a double barrel shotgun in the stable one of the stage messengers left for the hostler, and I’ve got a case of shells for it.”

  “Good. We’ll bring it in here and make sure it’s in working order. I travel with a Thirty-Eight Colt Lightning in my duffel, and I know how to use it. But, for now, I want to get some disinfectant and clean bandages on those neck wounds, then we’ll scare up something to eat.”

  Lila looked grateful, but also seemed eager to deflect this smothering attitude by turning to Coopersmith. “Get some food before you leave. There’re tortillas and a pot of cold beans.”

  “I’ll manage. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  “Then let me show you where my saddle horse is. Rivera and his amigo took two of my best mules. Guess they preferred animals they thought were a little hardier for desert travel.” She guided him toward the stable, saying under her breath: “I know that woman means well, but I can do for myself here. I just got careless and let my guard down. A few days of her bossy attitude and I might be all for catching the stage out of here.”

  Coopersmith chuckled, and returned the wave of the driver as the stage swung out onto the Gila Road and turned east. Dusk was blanketing the isolated station.

  “Watley, fetch out Pistol.”

  The hostler led up a gelding as Lila lighted the coal-oil lamp hanging on a nearby post. “He’s not big, but he’s durable,” she assured him as Watley adjusted the Mexican saddle blanket over the animal’s back. “He’s got a lot of Arabian in him, a cross from one of Keene Richard’s Kentucky purebred colts, I’m told. I’ve trained him to be ground-reined,” she added. “He’ll respond to any gentle, firm command, and he can run like the wind. He’s been kept up too long and needs exercise.”

  “Perfect,” Coopersmith replied. “If some of his ancestors are from the deserts of the Middle East, I’m certain he’ll do fine.”

  Watley handed him an old, well-used California stock saddle. It was reasonably light he noted as he swung it into place. The saddle had a slim horn, deep seat with high pommel and cantle, and even pointed Spanish tapaderas hung from the covered wooden stirrups.

  Ten minutes later, Coopersmith had tied on his bedroll, hung a full, blanket-covered two-quart canteen from the horn along with a cotton sugar sack of bread and dried goat meat. He gathered the reins and mounted.

  “That bloodthirsty Rivera and his compadre have a seven hour head start on you. They looked pretty wiped out, so they’ll likely camp somewhere along the trail. Be careful you don’t ride up on them unawares,” Lila cautioned him, looking up in the yellow lantern light that illuminated the stable. Except for the inflamed, swollen burn on her lower lip, she looked as healthy as could be expected after her ordeal. A bandanna served as a temporary bandage around her lacerated neck.

  “Rest assured, I’ll be cautious,” Coopersmith said, pating the holstered Colt he wore at his hip.

  “Oh, and one more thing . . . ,” Lila added. “Those two are traveling together, but they’re not friends. In fact, Rivera appeared to be the other fella’s prisoner.”

  “Odd. But then, there’s no honor among thieves. They often fall out with one another. Now they have your gold to fight over as well. With any luck, their relationship will turn violent before long. Too bad there’s no telegraph, or we could send a warning ahead to the law in Yuma.”

  She nodded. “The wire will follow the railroad, but not in time to help us. At least the stage driver, who just left, promised to report this robbery to the U.S. marshal at Tucson.”

  The territory is too vast and wild for that to do much good, Coopersmith thought. I’m on my own.

  She laid a hand on the horse’s nose and looked earnestly at Coopersmith. “You must find Daniel before they do.” Her voice nearly broke, and she turned away.

  Uneasy with this show of emotion, he simply said: “Keep your chin up. I’ll see you soon.”

  He reined the horse around and rode off into the pre-moon darkness.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  For the first hour, Lyle Coopersmith busied himself becoming accustomed to riding a Western saddle on an unfamiliar horse in the dark. Except for the stars, there was no light at all and he got far off the road twice before he realized that Pistol had a better instinct for finding his own way, so he let the gelding have his head. He was well trained, as Lila had indicated.

  From having traveled it twice before, he was aware the Gila Road was not a road in the ordinary sense. It was merely a sandy wagon track that meandered back and forth roughly parallel to the Gila River. Its path varied according to weather, ruts, deep sand, and arroyos, winding wherever riders and stagecoach drivers decided to go, but rarely straying more than a mile from the river.

  By the time he became comfortable with the horse and his direction of travel, a gibbous moon rose partially to light his way. It helped to some degree, but etched black shadows around every saguaro, mesquite bush, and cottonwood. As the night stretched longer, his fatigued mind imagined movements and potential ambush in every dark shadow.

  When he stopped to let Pistol drink at the river, he decided he’d pushed himself far enough and sought a place to camp. Two hundred yards from the Gila, he found a large open area screened by mesquite on all sides. He unsaddled Pistol and hobbled him, then, not risking a fire, gnawed off a few bits of beef jerky and bread and washed it down with canteen water. He unrolled his blankets and stretched out, keeping his holstered Colt near at hand. Being unused to camping alone in the wild, his nerves at first kept him alert, sensitive to every strange noise.

  Finally, when the moon began to wane, he dozed off and slept until early dawn. Then he rose, a bit stiff but feeling rested, quickly rolled up his bedding, and saddled the horse. Dawn reddened the eastern horizon as he put Pistol into an easy canter and the horse held the pace without tiring.

  An hour later, with the sun well clear of the horizon, he watered the animal at the river and filled his canteen from a clear pool. Remounting, he headed southwest again. There was no sign of the two robbers, but he was careful not to ride through any thickets of brush or near any cottonwoods large enough to conceal a man.

  By late morning the fierce sun had made travel unbearable. He sought relief, sheltering in the shade of desert scrub. The light, westerly breeze felt as if it were coming from a blast furnace. He unsaddled Pistol and let him roll in the loose sand to discourage the flies that quickly found him. Then he tied the horse to a large mesquite, and stretched out on the sand to doze and sweat through the hottest hours of the day.

  The sun lay on the horizon when he roused himself from a heat-induced stupor and dashed a handful of canteen water into his face. He’d positioned the saddle blanket and was preparing to swing the saddle into place when he stiffened at the sound of hoof beats. Dropping the saddle, he caught hold of the bridle and placed his other hand over the horse’s nose. Two mules came into view through the sparse vegetation. His heart began to race—the two riders fit the description of the robbers. The white man wore a tattered long underwear top and rode slightly behind the Mexican. The two were hard to tell apart, since both were burned dark from the sun.

  Coopersmith held his breath as they came abreast of him. He heard the indistinct sound of a voice, followed by a sharp retort from the other. He prayed his horse would not move until the riders had passed. The horse seemed to sense the danger. But, at a critical moment, when the riders were within thirty yards of him, the muscles in Pistol’s flank quivered and he swished his tail at the biting flies.

  If the men hadn’t been cursing each other, one of them might have noticed the movement through the scant brush. But the two rode on down the road, bouncing in the saddles to the mules’ jarring trot.

  Coopersmith let out a long sigh. Evidently he’d passed their camp in the dark.

  In order to stretch out the distance between himself and th
is pair, he hobbled Pistol, then lay down for a half hour and reflected on the close call. Should he have confronted them, or attempted an ambush? That would have ended his need to find and warn Mora. But even with the element of surprise, he had neither the courage nor the skill to take on single-handedly two experienced and desperate gunmen. His part-Arabian Pistol wasn’t even saddled, or Coopersmith might have tried to outrun them, had his ambush gone awry. They’d stolen Lila’s Colt and were armed with at least two revolvers and a knife.

  Satisfied he’d made the right choice, he consoled himself that he’d seen enough to recognize them later. He realized he was rationalizing. Truthfully it was fear that had paralyzed him into inaction. But a failed attack would have put them on their guard for later. Better they not know anyone was after them, except the law.

  Perhaps he could overtake them tonight. But to have any chance, he’d have to creep close enough to shoot them in their sleep. And his conscience would call this murder. He closed his eyes. Too much thought, too little action. He definitely didn’t have the instincts to be a lawman. The American Wild West he’d read about was just that—wild and lawless, a man’s survival depending on his having few scruples. He wished he owned a rifle, since he was a much better shot with a long gun, and resolved to buy one when he reached Yuma.

  A quarter hour later, he was at the river again, filling his canteen. As he bent over, he was startled at his reflection in the clear pool. The indistinct image staring back at him was that of a stranger. His sun-bleached hair needed a trim, his tawny mustache drooped over his mouth, and the flat planes of his face were as dark as they’d been in India. He grinned, his white teeth flashing in the dusky visage. “God Almighty, I look like a bloody, blond aborigine,” he said aloud to his horse. At the sound of his voice, Pistol raised his dripping muzzle, then went back to drinking.

  He capped his canteen and hooked it over his saddle horn. Damn me, if I don’t look fierce enough to scare hell out of anybody, he thought. But am I jelly inside? He thought of his late father, Kensington Alton Coopersmith—K.A. as he was known to his equals, and Professor Coopersmith to his many students. “Are you adequate to the task?” had been one of his father’s favorite questions when probing, testing his pupils and his own children. Lyle paused, hand on the saddle horn, hearing his father’s words as if the old man were standing beside him in the desert heat, high collar and cravat in place, waistcoat spotless, studying him through polished spectacles. Dead of apoplexy these twenty years, Kensington Coopersmith came out of the mists of time and death to challenge him. Lyle had a job to do. He must somehow find and warn Daniel Mora of the danger from the two robbers—that, or thwart them himself. Was he adequate to the task?

  He took a deep breath and shook off the vivid image. Yes, I am, he thought, taking up the reins and swinging into the saddle. After throwing over a tame, low-paying clerical job to go adventuring in the colonies, he’d better be adequate to the task. He’d survived hair-raising scrapes halfway around the world, so there was no reason he couldn’t keep his head about him and accomplish this job. Yet, reining westward, he tingled with the same nervous instinct he imagined a cat must feel when he’d reached his ninth life.

  Coopersmith tugged his hat brim low to block the declining sun, and tried to put himself into the minds of these outlaws. They’d passed him in the heat of the day, apparently inured to the deadly, debilitating effects of the summer sun. They appeared to be worn down by some earlier ordeal in the desert and would likely make camp at dark and sleep the night away. Anxious as they might be to find Mora and his mine, these two hardcases probably had enough sense not to rush westward at a mule-killing pace, as long as they knew pursuit was not imminent. With a sack of rich gold ore in the saddlebags, and prospects of more, they would stay focused on their goal, and not provoke confrontation with other travelers. On the contrary, they’d lie low. Like shy rattlesnakes, they’d avoid contact, but would be deadly if surprised. Coopersmith resolved to avoid them. He knew they were on the Gila Road, but they didn’t know he was.

  At dark, he guided Pistol into a copse of small cottonwoods away from the river and made a dry camp. He quickly fell asleep, but was awake and on his way by the time the moon was silvering the landscape.

  He rode at a steady pace and, when dawn lightened the sky behind him, caught sight of distant dark specks moving against the dun-colored desert. As he approached, the sun topped the horizon and these figures materialized into horses, oxen, and the gear of the Southern Pacific grading crew.

  Coopersmith splashed across the shallow river to the north side where the men were just finishing breakfast and hitching the teams to the scrapers. He dismounted near the wagon of the foreman, Ellis MacLeod, and ground-reined Pistol.

  “Well, Coop, I didn’t look for you to be back so soon,” the lean, muscular Scotsman greeted him. “Have some breakfast?”

  “Sure.” He took a fork and speared two cold flapjacks onto a tin plate, then drowned them in molasses from a pitcher. He sat, cross-legged, on the ground, away from the heat of the small cooking fire to eat, as MacLeod poured and handed him a cup of black coffee.

  “Ambrosia for the gods,” Coopersmith exuded a few minutes later, wiping up the remaining syrup with the last hunk of pancake and popping it into his mouth. He put his dish into a bucket of water and poured himself more coffee from the smoke-blackened pot that hung on a tripod over the fire.

  MacLeod hunkered on the other side of the fire and regarded him over the rim of his tin cup. “You look a mite weary. Been traveling all night?”

  “Most of it,” Coopersmith admitted.

  MacLeod said nothing, but was obviously awaiting some further explanation. Coopersmith had flagged the passing eastbound stage, expecting to be gone at least a fortnight, and now was back within three days, riding a strange horse.

  “I can’t stay. Is Quanto still on the job?” He cocked an eye at the workmen some fifty yards away.

  “Sure is. One of the best damned workers I’ve got. Wish they were all like him . . . more work than gripes.”

  “I need to borrow him.”

  “Borrow?” MacLeod arched sun-bleached brows. “What for?”

  “Need a red Indian I can trust, and he’s the only one I know. Mora tells me he’s a tracker and a fighter.” He glanced around. “Do I have your word you’ll keep this to yourself?”

  The foreman nodded.

  Coopersmith proceeded to relate the story.

  “Sounds as if you need to get the Yuma sheriff in on this,” MacLeod commented.

  “I’ll alert him, but I doubt he’ll provide much help.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Those two outlaws will likely avoid Yuma. A wanted poster probably already exists for one of them, if he’s an escaped convict. I figure the sheriff and maybe one deputy have plenty to keep them busy right there in town without hiring a posse to go traipsing into the mountains looking for a couple of highwaymen from another part of the territory.” He drained his coffee and set the cup on a rock. “I’m no outdoorsman. Mora told me this Indian can survive on little water, is good with a knife and gun, and isn’t troubled by scruples, as are many whites. Best of all, like most aborigines who’ve lived close to the land, he has a sixth sense about danger and the natural world. I need him.”

  “He might not want to go with you. He won’t be paid when he’s off the job.”

  “If we can locate Mora, he’ll give Quanto enough gold to make up for any lost wages . . . and then some.”

  MacLeod looked toward a group of men who were setting timbers to support a small trestle over an arroyo. Coopersmith picked out Quanto by the faded blue bandanna tied around his head. The other men, including the Chinese, wore hats. “There he is,” the foreman said. “Go ask him. If he wants to go, I’ll pay him off.”

  “I can’t speak Spanish.”

  “He’s picked up a good deal of English since he’s been here,” the boss said. “My orders and such. He doesn’t have to rely o
n one of these Mexicans to translate like he did at first.”

  Coopersmith approached the Indian, who had just set down his end of a thick post. He was already sweating in the early morning heat. Coopersmith thought he was darker and more muscular than he remembered.

  “Quanto, you know me . . . Coopersmith? Remember, I paid your stagecoach fare?”

  The Indian nodded impassively, his dark eyes steady.

  Coopersmith motioned him away from the others, and explained in simple terms what he wanted. “You go with me to find Mora?”

  “Mora, friend,” Quanto said. “We find him, stop bad men.”

  “Ah, my eloquent native,” Coopersmith muttered with relief. “Put about as succinctly as any man could. You ought to stand for Parliament.” A great weight was lifted from Coopersmith. With a lighthearted confidence he hadn’t felt in days, he motioned for Quanto to follow him. “Draw your pay. Then we’ll go.”

  The foreman was already in his wagon, dragging out his metal cash box.

  Finding a suitable mount proved more difficult. The laborers had ridden from end-of-track in wagons, and none of these horses or mules could be spared, even if there had been a saddle. Foreman MacLeod was the only one who had a saddle horse here, while all the draft animals were being used to draw scrapers and drag heavy timbers.

  “Coop, this Indian can run with the best of them,” MacLeod said, counting out the greenbacks and holding a ledger for the Indian to make his mark. “We’re only sixteen miles from Yuma. He could jog alongside your horse and never be winded. In fact, I think he’d rather travel by foot than horseback any day. You could pick up a buggy or another mount in town.”

  MacLeod conversed with Quanto in fluent Spanish, and the Indian nodded.

  “Just like I figured,” the foreman said, setting the cash box inside the tailgate. “He’s been missing his running. He’s ready to go.”

  Coopersmith felt foolish riding while the other loped alongside, but they followed the river and made frequent stops. He motioned for Quanto to take a turn on the horse, but the Indian waved him off.