The Blaze of Noon

by Tim Champlin

  “No. No.”

  By the time they reached the edge of Yuma, Quanto was showing signs of fatigue, more from the heat than just the exertion, it appeared. He was as perfect a physical specimen as any human Coopersmith had ever seen, including the tall Zulu tribes-men in South Africa who were also legendary long-distance runners.

  It was noon, and blazing hot. Coopersmith sought a drink of water in a saloon for the two of them, but the Indian was not admitted. Coopersmith chose not to make an issue of it, and brought out a jug of water and tortillas wrapped around chopped meat and chile peppers.

  Since Quanto was averse to riding horses, Coopersmith guessed the Indian was probably a poor rider, anyway, so he rented from the livery a covered buggy, drawn by a single horse. Quanto stayed with the rented rig while Coopersmith shopped the mercantile for additional camp gear and cooking utensils. Since he was rapidly running short of money, he bought an old Henry .44, instead of the new Winchester ’73 he wanted. The brass receiver would cast a bright reflection in the sun, but it couldn’t be helped.

  “You’re lucky,” the clerk said. “These are the last two boxes of Forty-Four rimfire cartridges I have in stock. Not a big demand for these any more. Most men have gone over to the Winchesters, Marlins, or Remingtons.” He grinned. “ ‘Course the Army still sticks with their old single-shot Springfields.”

  “Yeah.” Coopersmith was only half listening. His mind was already on their journey upriver to Castle Dome Landing. Lila had said that was the best place to start.

  He’d seen nothing of the two robbers, nor did he expect they’d show themselves in town. If they needed anything from Yuma, they’d more likely steal or buy it at night. But, if the outlaws rode into the dry Castle Dome Mountains in August, they’d have to be equipped to survive.

  The clerk loaded the flour sack with all the dry foodstuffs and pans and matches, canvas water bags, and other odds and ends. Coopersmith paid for them, pocketed his change, heaved the bag over his back, picked up the Henry, and stepped out into the sunshine.

  Finding Mora would be difficult. But he felt his chances were a lot better with Quanto at his side. Maybe they’d get lucky.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The paranoia Daniel Mora had experienced following his discovery of the gold had vanished. Sitting by his campfire in the long summer evening, he was at peace with himself and his situation. Gazing down the shallow valley, he reflected that it was normal to have felt shock and wonder, followed quickly by suspicion that everyone he saw was plotting to kill and rob him. Then had come the terrible weight of responsibility sudden riches represented. He had to remind himself that gold was simply a heavy, yellow metal. His other perceptions were only fantasies.

  With the blade of his short axe, he heaped more coals around the lid of his small pot of beans and bacon, then lounged back on an elbow and breathed deeply of the clean, dry desert air. Before his discovery, he’d possessed everything he needed for personal happiness. Then, in an instant, his world had turned upside down, thrusting him from dirt-poor prospector to one of the wealthiest men in the territory. The good news had been as big a shock to his system as the news of some personal calamity might have been.

  He was aware of the dangers his new found wealth presented; he just wasn’t possessed by them. His harmonious balance had returned.

  Several days earlier, when he’d retrieved Kismet from the livery at Castle Dome Landing, he’d also bought a stout mule named Billy.

  A stop at the mercantile produced a wooden pack saddle, some heavy leather bags, and three coils of good hemp rope. This time, he wanted to haul out a much larger load of the rich ore. In a town founded as a supply depot for the strikes and developing mines in the district, the major topic of discussion was all things related to harvesting precious metals. Mora knew his purchases had not gone un-noted, but that fact didn’t concern him.

  Heading east from town, Mora rode the mule bareback and let Kismet carry the pack saddle loaded with the camp gear and water kegs. He made no attempt to hide their trail as they journeyed the few miles directly toward the area of his St. Francis Mine. He kept his loaded Marlin handy, along with his belted revolver. Riding on high ground whenever possible, he avoided narrow cañons, and also took normal precautions when camping. But fear was no longer a factor; he’d wrestled down his own mental hobgoblins.

  With the scarcity of water for the animals in the summer heat, he decided to make this a quick in and out trip. He’d even brought nosebags and enough grain to last Kismet and Billy about four days; three-fourths of it was already gone. Since he would require his animals to labor in the heat, hauling his heavy treasure, the least he could do was ensure they were in top condition for the ordeal.

  In the morning he planned to go directly to his mine about a mile away, climb up into the cleft, and begin chipping off enough ore to fill the four leather drawstring bags. He’d have to lower the heavy bags by ropes from the ledge, then pack them on his mule, Billy, making sure the load was secure and balanced, then move away a couple of miles to camp for the night. It would be exhausting work in the heat, and he wondered if it would take him more than a day to fill the four bags. But it was a pleasant dilemma to contemplate as he reclined on his groundcover a comfortable distance from the fire. Most men worked for wages as he’d once done, subject to all the bosses’ human foibles—anger, revenge, greed, and political conniving. Now he’d eliminated the middlemen, and was picking his wages directly from Mother Earth.

  The meal was ready and he carefully raked away the glowing coals, spooned out the steaming beans and bacon onto a tin plate, and lounged back to eat it with flat pan bread. A filling and satisfying meal, but he still had a hunger for potatoes. It was one of the few things he missed from his former life. Must be something in my Irish heritage, he thought and smiled to himself. Potatoes were just too bulky and perishable to carry. Dry beans, onions, bacon, smoked ham, jerky, cornmeal, and rice were easier to pack.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of white. Two, then three forms moved against a distant hillside. He put down his plate and pulled his field glasses from their leather case. Mountain goats swam into focus as he adjusted the twin lenses. He watched the animals leaping nimbly from rock to rock up the steep, reddish-brown hillside, then finally disappear over the top.

  A bit of childish doggerel surfaced from the mists of his memory:

  If all the world were flat, Where would the mountain goats be at?

  Filled with contentment at the sight of the wildlife, he replaced the glasses in their case. Hawks, cactus wrens, small rodents, lizards, even the few poisonous reptiles seemed welcome company to him. Having lived among them for many months, he no longer felt alien. It was said that St. Francis of Assisi possessed such peaceful rapport with animals that wild creatures came to him without fear. Mora knew it was probably only a pious legend, but it gave him a closer spiritual kinship with his patron.

  He glanced at Kismet and Billy, grazing on a few green leaves of the nearby mesquite bushes. It would be nice occasionally to have another person to talk to. But then, conversation often led to opinions, then to arguments and hard feelings and. . . . No—non-human creatures were fine company. One could not let down and be completely natural and open with humans. There was always an element of reserve, and a person had to be careful what he said and how he said it. Human communication was a real struggle—most of the time not worth the effort.

  His meal finished, he scrubbed clean the metal plate, cup, and pot with white sand to conserve his water.

  Kismet raised her head, curled her lip, and brayed loudly.

  Mora dropped the frying pan and yanked his pistol from his belt, a chill going up his back. He pivoted, looking all around him.

  The desert was as peaceful and quiet as before. Normally his burro brayed only at some unusual presence. Then he saw another mountain goat moving against the brown rock 100 yards away. He let out a long sigh and shoved the gun back under his belt. He only thou
ght he was completely relaxed; his caution had merely gone underground.

  The sun was lighting the tops of hills next morning when Mora paused below his mine. The pre-dawn breeze had ceased and the still air in the deep shadow of the narrow defile was already very warm. He didn’t want to leave his mule and burro here, but once the sun was well up, the rock overhang above this dry wash provided the only shade within a mile. He let the animals drink their fill from one of the water kegs, then tethered them, by a long lead, to a jutting rock.

  “The sooner started, the sooner done,” he muttered to himself as he pulled off the pack saddle, water kegs, and camp gear and set them to one side. Then he spread a piece of netting on the ground and made a small pile of his full canteen, ore hammer, short-handled axe, Marlin carbine, Smith & Wesson revolver, cartridges, and four thick leather bags that would each hold approximately half a bushel. Drawing the net together at the top, he secured it to the end of a long coil of rope. Then, tying the loose end of the rope to his belt, he pulled on his leather gloves and began climbing the opposite wall of the defile.

  The morning was still relatively cool, but, by the time he reached the ledge some thirty feet up, he was perspiring heavily. He paused to catch his breath, wondering if he was sweating because of the exertion or the excitement of having the wealth of the world at his fingertips.

  He hauled up the net with his tools and weapons. He shoved the bundle ahead of him through the narrow aperture in the tilted rock, then crawled in after it. It was still nearly dark inside, and he’d forgotten to bring anything to make a torch. But the sun’s rays would soon filter through the overhead cracks, so seeing would not be a problem during the long day.

  He opened the netting and coiled the rope to one side. Then he loaded both his carbine and his pistol before uncorking the two-quart canteen and swigging a long drink. Impatient as he was to get to work, there was not yet enough light, so he sat down and waited.

  Only then did he remember that he was sharing the cave with the two dead Franciscans. When the rising sun finally provided enough visibility, he dragged the brown-robed, mummified skeletons by the cowls over the stone floor and laid them head to foot along the wall where the huge slab of tilted rock formed a narrow angle. He hardly had to touch the partially disarticulated bones and parchment-like tissue, but the remains still made his flesh crawl. He stood for a moment, gazing at the desiccated corpses, wondering again who they were and what their story had been. Perhaps at this moment they were looking down on him, approving of his finding the gold for which they no longer had any use.

  His claim marker still contained the slip of paper he’d left. So, apparently, no one had been here. When the light was finally bright enough, he pulled aside the dry mesquite bush and began chipping away with his rock hammer. At least the dead air in the cave was somewhat cooler due to the shade and the moisture seeping down one wall.

  Time ceased for him as he worked. He became totally absorbed, hacking away at the white quartz with its imbedded gold. Now and then he paused to scoop the loose pile of ore into one of his leather sacks. To save weight, he’d later chip off as much of the rock as he could, retaining only the pure gold. Yet, most of the yellow metal was so enmeshed with the quartz that the ore would require smelting to separate.

  Deeper into the vein, the ore became hard to reach. He swung the backside of his axe at the edges of surrounding rock, knocking off large chunks to give himself access to the twenty-inch wide vein that angled downward into the solid rock. At some remote point in geologic time, gases from the bowels of the earth had evidently forced up the molten metal, where it cooled and hardened in this fissure as nearly pure gold. It was up to him to extract as much as he could with hand tools. When the face of the vein was too far down to reach, he’d have to use dynamite.

  The sun’s narrow shaft of light began lancing through the overhead crack, illuminating drifting dust that stuck to his sweaty skin. Turning aside to breathe cleaner air, he moistened his bandanna in the seepage on the moss-covered wall and wiped his face and neck.

  There were only two problems with using dynamite. First, he had no experience handling explosives and could very well blow himself into small pieces. Second, a charge might bury the golden hoard just as easily as revealing more of it. The huge slabs of rock that were tilted together to form this cleft would not stand for any heavy blasting without caving in. He glanced at his take so far—two sacks filled with as much as he could lift. Two more to go. He analyzed his feelings. Gold fever in the form of unreasonable greed was not part of his make-up. But he was practical. It was harvest time and he had to make gold while the sun shone.

  One other possibility suggested itself. He could use a singlejack, like hard-rock miners used before the invention of the steam-powered compressed air drill. A singlejack was really just a chisel and hammer, probably not long enough to chip out much of this ore. And a doublejack would require one man to hold a longer chisel while a second man swung the hammer. This procedure was not used actually to dig out ore. It was a laborious way of punching narrow holes in which to set blasting powder or dynamite. He’d have to go to Castle Dome Landing to obtain these tools. But that could wait, he decided, returning to work on the rock. He needed the help of a partner he could trust. He slammed the rock with the back of the single-bitted axe. Chips and dust flew as more of the rock shattered onto the floor. The only person who came to mind as a possible partner was Lila Strunk, and she might not be up to all this physical labor and dirt. Who else? Quanto—an Indian who couldn’t speak English, but who’d proven himself a true friend and benefactor.

  Blam! Blam! Blam! The hammer blows in the confined chamber made his ears ring.

  He raked away the broken rock with his foot, then got down on his knees and reached into the declivity, hacking off more of the rotten quartz with his small ore hammer. The vein showed no signs of pinching out as it sloped slightly downward. No telling how much gold this bonanza contained. For now, he’d take out all the gold he could possibly reach.

  Suddenly Kismet brayed loudly. Then again.

  Startled, Mora rocked back on his heels and stood up, listening intently. He grabbed his Marlin that was leaning against the wall. He’d been so absorbed in his work that he’d forgotten to check outside now and then. He crawled through the opening, sliding cautiously to the edge of the outside ledge, and peered over. Two men were in the narrow cañon below, attempting to saddle his mule and burro. They were dressed like white men, although what he could see of their skin was darker than any Indian’s.

  He worked the lever of the Marlin and fired a warning shot. The slug splattered chips ten feet from the men. They jumped behind the skittish animals for protection, peering up at him. One of the men yanked a revolver and fired a wild shot in his direction. The bullet whined off rock over his head.

  “Get away from those animals!” Mora yelled, lying flat on his belly on the hot ledge.

  His answer was an oily laugh that made his skin crawl. “Ah, Daniel Mora, we meet again.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Mora yelled, keeping his head down. The voice had a slight Spanish accent.

  “Your old friend, Angel Rivera, come to pay you a call.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t tell me you have forgotten so soon?” the voice replied in a tone of mock injury. “You got me fired at Sand Tank station.”

  Mora felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. “Make tracks outta here, or I’ll put a bullet in you!” He was in no mood to fool with this man.

  Suddenly the other man spoke with a calm, authoritative voice. “It’s too hot to stand here, hashing over old times,” he said. “So let’s get down to business. We heard you digging up there, so this must be where your gold mine is.”

  Mora was stunned. How had word leaked out?

  “So we’re going to take your animals and your water and move off a ways and wait for you to get real thirsty. We figure it won’t be long before you’re willing to trade all that
gold you’ve dug out for a good drink from one of these kegs.”

  Mora’s mind was in a whirl, trying to figure a way out of this situation. He didn’t reply, but jacked another round into the chamber of his weapon. The racheting noise was loud in the midday stillness.

  “I wouldn’t be shooting down here if I were you,” the voice said, “unless you want to hit your mule and burro.”

  “But then I could kill you, too, before you could get out of range. There’s no other cover down there.”

  “I’m betting you won’t shoot your own animals,” the man countered. “But, if you try, I’ve got these kegs ready to dump over. You’ll have a mighty dry time walking out of here. And you sure won’t be packing any gold on your back.” He paused. “Is the gold really worth your life?”

  Mora wondered if this pair had arrived afoot. They likely had mounts somewhere out of sight, and water, too, or they wouldn’t be so ready to destroy his. He silently cursed his luck. Everything had been going too smoothly. They obviously knew he had gold; there was no use wasting time denying it.

  “If I give up my weapons, and the gold, will you let me ride out of here with my animals and the water?” he called without exposing more than one eye over the lip of the ledge. The heated rock burned through his thin shirt and cotton pants. He slid a hand under his belly and extracted from his belt the loaded pistol he’d been lying on.

  “You can have your animals and the water to ride out,” the voice replied.

  “You obviously know who I am,” Mora said, stalling. “Who are you? I’d like to put a name to the low-down scum I deal with.”

  “The name’s Hugh Deraux. You’ll think scum before we’re done with you, unless you do as I say.”

  “Anybody who runs with Rivera is scum,” Mora replied, trying desperately to plan his next move.

  “All this talk is making me thirsty,” Deraux said. “What about you?”