Leaving Yuma

by Michael Zimmer

  “Bighorn sheep ain’t gonna be afraid of pictures painted on a cañon wall,” Del replied, but, from his tone, I suspect the ancient Thunderbird’s stare was eating at him more than he wanted to admit.

  “Let’s go get the horses,” I said, swinging my rifle to my left hand now that I was no longer worried about finding some small band of Yaquis holed up in there.

  We gathered a couple of armloads of firewood on the way back, and dumped them beside the upper pool. There were numerous old fire sites around the pond, identified by pieces of charred wood and soot stains on the curved ceiling that helped filter the smoke before it reached the surface. I told the muleteers to take the stock up the narrow fissure to the grassy cañon above and turn them loose.

  “No reason to hobble them,” I added. “They’re not likely to wander back down here unless a cougar scares them.”

  Having lost a couple of pack animals to mountain lions and jaguars over the years, I knew they sometimes hunted this region, which was another reason I didn’t want to hobble the stock. They’d need all the speed they could muster if one of those big cats sniffed them out.

  That night, sheltered as we were deep inside the larger slot cañon, we kindled a good-sized fire, then fixed a hearty supper of fried ham and ash cakes. We kept the small communal coffee pot bubbling, enough for all of us to have two cups apiece. Afterward I stretched out with my lower back against my saddle and rolled a cigarette. It felt good to have my arms free again. I’d rolled my shirt sleeves up earlier to allow the moist, cool air of the slot to soothe the angry flesh. If it had been me outfitting the group, I would have made sure we had a tin of salve along for cuts and scrapes—always a likelihood around livestock—but also for humans when the need arose, as it usually did around livestock. A little of Doctor Lester’s Miracle Medical Salve or some Carter’s Udder Cream would have done wonders for my itching wrists.

  Davenport was looking a lot better after a good meal and a little rest. He was leaning against his own saddle, smoking one of those big black cigars that looked like it had been left behind by a sick dog, but which I’ve heard cost fifty cents apiece in Tucson. For the price, I would have expected a better aroma. Glancing at me over the glowing tip of his panatela, the old man asked, “How far away are we?”

  “Another day and most of a night.” I studied him curiously in the primeval light. “You never did say what your plans were.”

  “My plans were to assess the situation once we arrived at our destination, but I’d consider any suggestions you might wish to propose.”

  Well, as a matter of fact, I had one. I’d been considering how best to approach the ransom of Abby Davenport and her kids ever since leaving Yuma, and had come to a few conclusions along the way. I said, “If we ride in there toting those guns out in the open, there won’t be much incentive for Soto to release your family.”

  “Hardly an original determination, Latham. I was hoping for something a little more relevant, considering your experience with the people of Sabana.”

  “All right, then, consider this. You’ve got about as much chance of riding in there and getting out again with your family as a snowball in a hot skillet. But I might be able to do it.”

  Davenport’s expression never changed, and I’d wonder later on if this wasn’t something he’d had in mind all along, one of the reasons he’d had me sprung from Yuma, rather than seeking a native guide.

  “Through your past contacts, you mean?” A trace of smugness crossed his sunburned face. “Your smuggler’s contacts?”

  “The men I traded with, yeah.”

  “And you believe these men can be trusted?”

  “Not all of them, but there was one older man I used to stable my burros with. I’d trust him, if he’s still alive.”

  “Will he help us?”

  “He wouldn’t help you, but he might help me. Assuming I’ve got something to grease his wheels with.”

  “Meaning money?”

  “It would likely cost him his life if Soto found out what he was doing. He’d consider it treason to Castillo’s revolution.”

  “Adolpho Castillo doesn’t have a revolution,” Davenport replied coolly. “He has a gang, but he’s too far removed from Sabana to influence Soto’s decisions, no matter what others would have you believe.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe, not that it would mean much to a man standing in front of one of Soto’s firing squads.” After a pause, I added, “You know that this isn’t going to be easy, that I’m not going to be able to just ride in there and set up a trade? I’ll need to keep some distance between me and Soto until I can get things set up. The guy I told you about will likely help if he can, but there’ll probably be others I’ll have to go through, as well.”

  “Cut the crap, Latham. How much?”

  “Two hundred dollars. Silver or gold, if you’ve got it.”

  Davenport hesitated for so long I was beginning to think he might refuse. Then he glanced at Del. “Get it.”

  Del shot me a dark look, then pushed to his feet. He went to his saddlebags and withdrew the small leather pouch I’d seen him use in Yuma, and brought it back to the fire. From the edge of the darkness, I could see Carlos and Felix watching like vultures as Del passed the sack to Davenport. The old man loosened the drawstring and spilled a handful of coins into his palm. From the shadows, Carlos hissed softly.

  “There’s eighty dollars here,” Davenport announced, pushing the coins around with a finger. “Eighty-two and thirty-five in change, to be exact.” He dumped the coins back into the bag and tossed it across the flames to me.

  “It’ll help,” I said, and dropped the pouch into a small pommel bag off my saddle horn.

  “I’m going to let you take only one gun and a single case of ammunition, just enough for Soto to see what kind of firepower I’ve got here. Once he turns over my son, you can come back for another gun and more ammunition. Set it up for an additional mule with full packs of ammunition for the release of my wife and daughter, then the remainder of the ammunition and the final weapon when the transaction is completed.” He leaned forward, his gaze intensifying. “With one nonnegotiable stipulation. I want my son first.”

  “That isn’t going to be easy. Men like Chito Soto can be …”

  “I am fully aware of what men like Chito Soto can be like, Latham. In this case, I don’t care. With the kind of weaponry I’m supplying, he can concede this one point. Bring back my son. Bring me Charles.”

  I hesitated, then shrugged noncommittally. I’d do what I could, but whether Davenport cared or not, men like Chito Soto had their own way of doing things. “I’ll leave first thing in the morning,” I said.

  “But not alone,” Davenport replied. “I’m sending Buchman with you.”

  I started at that, then shook my head. “No offense, Mister Davenport, but Del Buchman is the last person I’d want riding with me. One gringo is risky enough, but at least I’m known in Sabana, and I know the language a lot better than Del does, too. He’d stand out down there like a dancing bear in a flock of pelicans.”

  “I hate to agree with anything this little prick says,” Del chimed in, “but in this case, he’s right. A stranger in town is gonna get folks to talking, and word of a gringo stranger will likely get back to Soto and his boys before we’ve cleared our saddles.”

  “All right, then …” Davenport’s gaze traveled across the fire.

  “I’ll take Vega,” I said quickly, before the old man could make another choice. “He’ll fit in better than the Perezes, and he’s done this kind of thing before. He’ll know the ropes better than Carlos or Felix.”

  “The ropes?”

  “How to slip into a town without being seen, how to keep his animals quiet and on a short lead. A mule is just naturally going to want to bray as soon as it gets among its own kind, especially those it’s never seen before. If I ain’t wrong, L
uis’ll know how to muzzle a mule.”

  Davenport was silent as he considered my arguments. They made good sense, and while the old man might have been a first-class son of a bitch, he wasn’t a fool. Still, I could tell the prospect of allowing me to go into Sabana with just one of the muleteers was gnawing at him. The old man didn’t trust Soto, which was smart, but he didn’t trust me, either. I think he finally realized he didn’t have a choice.

  “Very well,” he said after a lengthy pause. “You and Vega. But heed me well, Latham, if either of you try to double-cross me, the flames in hell won’t be high enough to hide you.”

  “I’m not going to double-cross you or your family, Mister Davenport. Besides, I still want that pardon Buchman is holding. Luis and I’ll leave first thing tomorrow. It’ll take us most of a day and a night to get there, then however much time it takes to set up a trade. After that it’ll be another twenty-four hours back here … longer if Soto sends trackers after us. We’ll have to ditch them before coming in.”

  “Very well, just remember that I want my son first. I … there’s a reason that his release is more imperative than the others.”

  I studied him closely in the lowering light of the dying fire, wondering what the old man’s motive really was for wanting his son delivered first. If it had been me, I think I would have wanted the woman out first, but I didn’t know Davenport or his family, and figured there could be any number of reasons for ransoming the boy before the others.

  Switching to Spanish, I quickly outlined the situation to Luis, even though he already knew what was going on. I don’t recall if I’ve mentioned this yet, but Luis could speak English at least as fluently as I could Spanish. Or border Spanish, at any rate, which is quite a bit different than what they teach you in high school. I don’t know why he wanted to keep that little tidbit of information a secret from the others, but figured it might be for the same reason no one knew about that little Colt semiauto I was still packing inside the lining of my vest. It ain’t smart to lay all your cards on the table all at once, not if you want to walk away with a few winning hands.

  “We’ll pull out of here at first light,” I added to Luis, who merely nodded his understanding. He was a good man, and I realized I was glad he was coming along.

  Carlos and Felix exchanged glances but didn’t say anything, and I could read nothing in those dark Indian eyes. Pushing abruptly to my feet, I grabbed my saddle with my bedroll still tied behind the cantle and made my way toward the upper entrance to the slot cañon. Over my shoulder, I said, “You might want to consider having a man bed down south of the lower pool, in case someone tries to slip in during the night and cut a few throats.”

  * * * * *

  I was awake well before dawn the next morning, and made my way up the narrow side cañon in the dark. I found my bay in the deep grass close to the brook, and slipped a halter over her head. Luis’ saddle and pack mules were standing nearby, hipshot and dozing, and seemed to barely notice as I haltered them. Stringing them out one behind the other, lead rope-to-tail, I led them back down through the cañon to the upper pool, where Carlos Perez was feeding twigs to a fresh flame.

  Del and Spence were shuffling around half asleep, while Luis and Felix puttered over an ammunition crate they’d broken open, shifting the contents—wax paper-wrapped packages of twenty rounds each—into separate panniers to help balance the new load. We’d still tote the machine gun up high on the sawbucks, but a single crate of ammunition would be too heavy to carry on just one side of a mule’s pack. It would pull the load off balance, and rub the hide off the animal’s ribs before the day was finished. There’s an art to packing mules that seems to be dying a slow death in this age of modern transportation.

  Davenport, I noticed, was still in his bedroll, curled on his side with his blankets pulled up over his ears. He was unmoving save for the steady rise and fall of his shoulder, and I wondered what it would take to awaken him. A trumpet? A stick of dynamite? Or maybe a Yaqui’s knife, slicing through the thin flesh of his throat? Back then, a good night’s sleep in that country was a luxury few men could afford.

  Del came over, his woolly brows twitching in consternation. Anticipating some new threat to shackle me with, I was caught by surprise when he said, “Good luck, Latham. Get ’em outta there if you can. I met the woman once, and she’s a decent sort. Just because she married a first-class jackass don’t mean she ought to be the one to suffer for his mistake.”

  I hesitated, sensing more to his words than he seemed willing to acknowledge, but before I could quiz him, he stalked away. I scowled in Davenport’s direction, and I swear I detected a shift in his breathing, as if he wasn’t asleep any more, but wanted us to think he was. A tiny prickle of doubt eased up my spine. I shook it off and went to fetch my saddle. I was snugging up the cinch when Spence came over, munching on a piece of leftover ham slapped on a square of hardtack.

  “Ye got everything ye need, laddie?” he asked.

  “I could use a revolver,” I replied, glancing at the one on his hip.

  He nodded thoughtfully. “How about food?” He held out his piece of hardtack and ham. “I could fetch ye some crackers, if ye think ye teeth’ll be rooted firmly enough to chew through it.”

  I shook my head. “We’ll make do with what we’ve got.” Luis and I had filled our saddlebags last night with dried meat and some leftover ash cakes, enough to get us into Sabana. After that we’d either pick up some fresh grub for the trip back, or be in too big of a hurry to think about eating.

  Luis came over to tell me he was ready. I didn’t insult him by asking if the load was balanced, or if the equipment was in good shape. If Luis said it was ready, it was ready.

  “Bueno, let’s get out of here.”

  Ed Davenport was sitting up now, the blankets puddled at his waist. He was staring at me stoically, but I didn’t go over. Pulling the bay’s nearside stirrup off the seat, I quickly stepped into the saddle.

  While Luis went to fetch his saddle mule, Del returned with a leather case swinging from one gnarled fist. I recognized it as soon as he handed it to me. “Keep your eyes on the skyline, Latham, and don’t go getting your rump shot off.”

  Again, his words caught me off guard. That morning, it was like his personality had done a complete flip. I’m not saying we were friends—I’ll never forgive him for coming south of the border to arrest me, or the years I lost in Yuma—but for a few minutes there, while Luis and I were readying our stock, our mutual animosity seemed to cool. Not sure how to respond, I ended up lifting the binocular case in my hand, like a fish on the end of a line. “I reckon this’ll help.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t lose ’em,” he replied, his tone gruff again. “They cost me five bucks in Tucson last year.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I said, wrapping the heavy straps around my saddle horn. After an awkward pause, I added, “You know if we aren’t back in three days, we likely won’t be coming back.”

  “You’d damned well better be back,” he replied. “Screwin’ up ain’t an option this time.” Then he slapped the bay’s hip with the flat of his hand, raising a powdery cloud of dust and leaving a partial imprint of his palm on the mare’s hide, like an old brand nearly haired over. “Get outta here, Latham. You ain’t doing nothing but wasting daylight now.”

  I reined the bay away from the fire, nodding to Spence as I rode past but ignoring the Perez boys. I didn’t waste a rearward glance at Davenport, and he didn’t call after me, either. I reckon as far as he was concerned, everything that needed saying had been said the night before.

  Luis fell in behind me, a serape draped over his shoulders against the morning chill, his pack mule grunting irritably at leaving behind the comforts of the hidden camp.

  The Yaqui Springs cañon is a short one, as far as cañons go, although none of the slot cañons I’m familiar were what you would call lengthy. A couple of hundr
ed feet past the lower pool, the cañon abruptly widened to thirty feet or more, the rim flaring back, then dropping lower. Five minutes later I hauled back on the bay’s reins to stare out across the rough barrancas and sheer-sided cliffs that were rumpled up before us.

  Pulling up at my side, Luis said, “Which direction, J. T.?”

  I nodded south. “See those mountains yonder? Those are the Sierra Verdes. Sabana is on the other side of them.”

  “They are not as far away as I’d feared.”

  “Not as the crow flies, but it’ll take us all day to reach them, then a good chunk of the night getting over the top. There’s an old game trail there nobody used to use. If it’s still there, and hasn’t been wiped clean by a landslide, we’ll follow that over the top.” I gave him a wry smile. “Now that you know my secrets, it won’t be long before you’re an old hand on these trails.”

  “Is there not enough trade for two of us?” he asked. “If not as partners, then at least we can use the same water holes without trying to shoot one another, or steal the other man’s merchandise.”

  “No, that was never my style, but if what Archuleta says about Soto’s men shutting down the Sabana breweries is true, there won’t be much reason for either of us to come this far south.”

  “Sí, perhaps, but the fighting will not continue forever. When Porfirio Díaz is gone and Mexico is finally free, the trade will return.”

  Maybe, I thought, but it occurred to me that I was no longer interested in trading across the border—smuggling. I was tired of putting my neck on the chopping block with every trip. Even before Chito Soto took over the Sabana Valley, all that country through there had been rife with bandits and hostiles, Yaquis and Apaches alike.

  I hadn’t done it for the money, I’d known that from the very beginning. Slipping across the border with a couple of burros laden with a case of strike-anywhere matches, a bunch of second-hand shoes, and some ladies dresses, I’d done it for the adventure, the thrill of outfoxing US Marshals in the north and Federales to the south. But Yuma had changed me. Hell, Yuma changed everyone who spent any time there, no matter which side of the bars they slept on. It turned some harder and meaner. Others swore they’d never go back, and were willing to give up their lawlessness if that’s what it took. I fell into the latter category, and was determined to find another way to make a living. One that would hopefully still satisfy my need for adventure—assuming I made it out of Sabana with my head still attached to my shoulders.