I was clinging to the back of the buckboard’s seat for dear life as we sped through Sabana’s narrow, winding streets. There was no point in directing Abby toward the Dos Puentes, since there would be nowhere to go on the other side even if she could negotiate those two pinched spans over the Río Sabana at the speeds she was driving, and we’d already missed the eastbound road to Tres Pinos. It seemed to me that our best bet would be to follow the main road west out of town, past the grain fields of the Sabana Valley and into the harsh desert toward the Sea of Cortez. (Editor’s note: The Sea of Cortez is more commonly known today as the Gulf of California.)
You might wonder why I didn’t have Abby turn around and make a run for Tres Pinos, where we could maybe catch the Ferrocarril del Pacifico to Nogales. There were two reasons. One was that we didn’t have any way of knowing when the next northbound train might pass through Tres Pinos, or if it would even stop when it did. But the main reason we didn’t go back was the simplest. We were already heading west. Turning around would mean going right back through a town filled with angry soldados.
So we went west, the road running straight between broad fields of grains and tobacco. Our way was wide but rutted, and I hung on until my fingers ached from the strain. Luis was huddled at my side, cradling the child as best he could from the worst jolts. I remember looking behind us at one point and seeing the pale stretch of road empty of pursuit, and hollering for Abby to slow down, but she only shook her head and continued on at full throttle.
“You’re going to wreck us!” I shouted above the roar of the unbaffled engine, and she replied, without looking around or loosening her white-knuckled grip on the wheel, “The throttle seems to be stuck, Mister Latham. I’m afraid I can’t slow down.”
My heart sank a little with that new information, and my fingers tightened on the back of the seat. I remember glancing at Luis. He was in a fetal position on the floor by then, the child clutched tightly to his chest. I could tell he hadn’t heard Abby’s announcement, and decided that was for the best.
The road continued on into the night, its few curves gentle and sweeping. Our route followed the center of the valley, even after we left the largest fields behind. We continued to pass a few small adobe houses along the way, each with its own tiny garden patch and maybe a few acres of grain or tobacco, but by dawn even those sporadic gasps of civilization had petered out. The land became more rugged as we approached a low mountain range that choked off the western tip of the valley. Spying a gap in the hills that I remembered from my time with the Yaquis, I tapped Abby’s shoulder and told her to stop.
“There’s a sharp curve up ahead that you’re never going to make at this speed,” I shouted, and she nodded in tight-lipped understanding.
“As soon as I push in on the clutch, reach over the side, and pull that heavy black wire from the engine. That should stop us.”
I crawled to the edge of the buckboard’s narrow bed. I think we must have been flying along at about fifteen or twenty miles an hour at that point, and staring at the ground flashing past in a tan blur just a couple of feet below my face sent a rush of emotion squirreling up my spine. Not fear, but excitement. Remember me mentioning that Coney Island roller coaster the other night, when I was telling you about our drive south from Sentinel? It was like that, a kind of hang-on-and-scream-at-the-top-of-your-lungs moment, although I kept those bubbling emotions to myself.
“Are you ready, Mister Latham?” Abby called.
“I’m ready, Missus Davenport.”
“Now!” she shouted, and shoved the clutch pedal to the floor.
The engine screamed as the tension between the flywheel and the rear axle was released. I grabbed the center wire off what I would eventually learn was the magneto’s distributor cap and gave it a yank, yelping at the unexpected electrical shock that traveled up my arm like a couple of dozen fleet-footed centipedes to explode in my armpit. My fingers instinctively popped open, dropping the wire as I rolled away, and the engine clattered to a stop. The automobile kept rolling, and lying on my back in the middle of the wagon bed, I told Abby to hit the brake.
“I’m afraid the brake doesn’t work, either,” she informed me.
I stared incredulously at the back of her head. “How long have we been traveling without brakes?”
“Ever since we left Sabana.”
“Jesus,” I breathed, exchanging a dumbfounded look with Luis.
“That lady’s got more grit than my socks,” he said, though keeping his voice low so that she wouldn’t overhear and be offended.
I crawled back to the seat and grabbed on. “We’ve come all this way without brakes?”
“I fear that we have,” she admitted, disengaging the transmission and allowing the vehicle to coast to a stop. It didn’t take long in that sandy soil. When we finally rolled to a halt, Luis gently set the girl on the floor, then crawled out the back of the wagon box and dropped to his hands and knees in the middle of the road.
“You all right?” I asked him.
“Sí, I’m just going to kneel here a moment and say a prayer to the Virgin.”
I started to laugh, then clamped it off. Dropping over the sideboard, I hobbled up to where Abby was preparing to dismount and helped her to the ground.
“Mama?” the little girl said, and the woman quickly brushed past me to lift the child into her arms—the adventuress gone, vanished in the blink of an eye, the mother returned.
“It’s OK, baby,” she soothed, then took the youngster off into the rocks to do whatever it was she thought needed doing.
Walking back to where Luis was now sitting on the ground, staring into the distance, I pulled the makings from my pocket and started a cigarette. “Well, this ain’t hardly what I had in mind,” I remarked.
“We are still alive, my friend. Not so long ago, I wouldn’t have bet on our living to see the light of this fine new day.”
Plopping down beside him, I handed him the cigarette, then started a second one for myself. “I doubt if we’d be here if not for Missus Davenport.”
Luis nodded admiringly. “She was something to see, was she not? It makes me wonder how someone could turn his back on such a woman.”
“The old man?”
“Sí.”
“I hope to get the chance to ask him that someday,” I said softly.
“It is a question that burns in my mind, as well, but not as much as wondering what we should do now.”
I didn’t have an answer for that, not right away. After putting the finishing touches on my cigarette, Luis struck a match and lit his and mine, then shoved the match head into the dirt beside his boot. I rubbed my knees. They were really hurting after the pounding they’d taken while I clung to the back of the buckboard’s seat.
“You told the woman there was a sharp curve before us,” Luis said after a bit. “You know this road?”
“A long time ago. Back then, this road led over the top to another valley where there used to be good grass and decent water. There was a horse operation headquartered in a little side cañon to the south, and a couple of families of vaqueros who hunted mustangs that they sold to the ranches around Tres Pinos. If it’s still there, we might be able to trade for some horses, then make a run for Arizona.”
“How long ago was that?”
“It’s been a good many years,” I admitted, but didn’t add that I’d still been traveling with the Yaquis then, and that we’d raided the Vaquero Springs rancho for fresh mounts. There had been survivors when we pulled out, but I didn’t know if they’d stayed after we were gone.
We were finishing our cigarettes when Abby returned with the girl. I’ve already described what Mrs. Davenport looked like, but I haven’t mentioned the child. Susan Davenport was just a few weeks shy of her seventh birthday when she was snatched off that train with her mother and brother. She was a cute kid with a round face and
curly brown hair several shades darker than her mama’s sandy tresses. She wore a white satin traveling dress with a frilly pink trim that was now tattered and stained, and plain black Oxfords, scuffed to bare leather at the toes. Her stockings were white with pink stripes that matched the ribbon in her unruly hair, and there were dark circles under her red-rimmed eyes—like her mother’s. Both of them were obviously exhausted, yet trying hard not to show it.
The woman paused some distance away as if gathering her courage, then strode purposely forward. “Might I ask if there is any food? Susan hasn’t eaten since yesterday noon, and that was little enough.”
I pushed gingerly to my feet, my knees still protesting the beating they’d taken from the Watson Masner. “I’m afraid what little food we had is still with our horses, but if we can get this contraption running again,” I rapped the automobile’s sideboard with a knuckle, “there used to be a ranch over those hills yonder that might have some grub to spare.”
She smiled apologetically. “Of course, and I don’t mean to be a bother. I just wanted to inquire.”
Luis was fumbling inside one of the pockets on his jacket. “I have a little something,” he said. “It is dirty, but it might take the edge off the niña’s hunger.” He brought out a broken square of hardtack and a palm-sized chunk of cold ham, both sprinkled liberally with pocket lint.
“Thank you,” Abby said gratefully, accepting Luis’ offering, then kneeling at her daughter’s side as she picked off the worst of the debris.
“We will all need food soon,” Luis told me quietly. “Water, too.”
“There should be plenty of water at the springs, even if the vaqueros who used to live there have moved on.” I glanced at the carbine he’d brought with him from the garrison. “If we’ve got enough time, we might find a deer or a stray calf. Even a rabbit would help.”
While the girl munched hungrily on her meat and cracker, Abby came over with a weary smile. “That all sounds so delicious,” she said, meaning the possibility of fresh meat. “Shall we take a look at our transportation and see if it can be made to function again?”
“Tell me what you need.”
“I was thinking we should check the gasoline and oil. Randolph always did that before we began any journey. And I’d like to fix the throttle and brake if possible.”
At that time I didn’t have a clue how to fix a throttle, but I’d watched Spence check the oil and refill the Berkshire’s gas tank on the way down from Sentinel, and figured I could handle those chores. Whatever was troubling the brakes would be relatively easy to track down, too, being the same friction-block set-up as any other small wagon—at least once the main brake rod left the mechanism under the bed.
While Luis went around the far side of the buckboard to have a look at the brake, I took off in search of a clean, dry limb to poke inside the gas tank. While we were doing that, Abby headed for the engine. I could tell by the tentativeness of her approach that she didn’t really know any more about the workings of a gasoline-powered motor than I did, but she seemed determined to do as much as she could.
It didn’t take long to track down most of the problems, and we were soon back at the tailgate comparing notes. The news wasn’t good. The gas tank, a ten-gallon iron keg strapped on its side under the seat, held less than two inches of fuel, and the oil was also low. The brake was unfixable, the hinge in front of the wooden pad having been sheared in half at some earlier date; it was Luis’ opinion that the bracket would have to be either completely replaced or welded by a blacksmith to be functional again, neither a task we were capable of completing in the field.
Fortunately the news from the engine wasn’t as dire. By tracking the metal rod backward from the steering column, Abby had discovered a missing bolt where the slim shaft connected to the carburetor’s throttle arm.
“It had to have come off on the road,” she stated. “I’m certain it was working while I was making adjustments prior to our starting the vehicle in Sabana.”
“It doesn’t matter when it came off, can it be fixed?” I asked.
“It already is,” she beamed. “I used a hairpin to reconnect the two pieces.” Then her smiled faded. “I don’t know how long it will last, though. I’m worried the pin’s strength will be inadequate for the rigors of an automobile’s engine.”
“With the gas tank so low, it won’t have to last long,” I predicted glumly.
“What about the brake?” Luis asked. “Can we drive it without that?”
“Since the throttle is no longer stuck wide open, we should be able to slow down enough to coast to a stop,” Abby said.
“We might be able to rig up some kind of a drag for downhill,” I added, eyeing the distant crest of the low mountains we still had to cross. It was several miles from where we’d stopped to the divide, but, if I remembered correctly, a fairly short but steep plunge down the other side. Turning to Abby, I said,. “Let’s see if we can get this machine running.”
Starting an engine, even those old hand-cranked models, isn’t as complicated as you might think, but I’ll be the first to admit that I was more than a little intimidated by the process that first time behind the wheel. Abby was using words like “fuel mixture” and “spark” and “choke,” terms that seemed overwhelming as I climbed into the seat, as did the need to keep the vehicle in “neutral” while someone cranked on the engine. What the heck was a neutral, anyway, and how did I get something as big as a buckboard inside of one?
You can go ahead and laugh if you want. It won’t hurt my feelings. Nowadays I can start those old engines alone and blindfolded, but back then it was a two-person chore, with a lot of tension in the air surrounding that rattletrap of an automobile as we sorted it all out together.
Sitting alone in the middle of the seat with Abby standing beside the vehicle to tell me what to push and what to pull and what to turn, and Luis fitting the heavy crank to the main shaft, I got that now-familiar lump of excitement in my throat as we prepared to start the engine. Up front, Luis gave me a chary look and said he was ready. I told him to, “Give it a whirl.”
On the third spin the engine bucked so wildly the entire vehicle seemed to lift off the ground. Abby jumped back with a startled exclamation, and Luis swore colorfully in Spanish, a language I was pretty sure neither Abby nor her daughter understood, although I suspect they could have easily grasped the essence of his words from the passion in which they were uttered.
“It is going to explode!” Luis shouted, backing away with the crank dangling from one hand.
“It’s not going to explode,” Abby replied. Making a quick spinning motion with her hand, she said, “Try it again.”
Again turned out to be the magic number. The motor sputtered to life with a hoarse, barking cough, accompanied by a cloud of stinking gray exhaust from a too-rich fuel mixture. We had a few missteps getting everything adjusted, but the engine was warm and forgiving, and was soon running strongly.
Clapping her hands in delight, Abby placed Susan in the bed, then crawled in after her. Luis jumped in behind Abby and made himself as comfortable as possible with his legs dangling over the end of the lowered tailgate, the carbine riding handily across his lap, its cartridge belt curled up at his side. I asked if everyone was ready, and, when I got an affirmative from the rear, I eased the vehicle into gear and carefully released the clutch.
I was lucky in that my first efforts at driving had been under Spencer McKenzie’s tutelage. Recalling his instructions and my own clumsy accomplishments in that sandy wash above Moralos, I was able to get the Watson Masner moving along without bogging it down or killing the engine. I don’t want to imply that I started out as a great driver, because I didn’t, but I did manage to keep the vehicle on the road, and only occasionally clipped some of the cholla and ocotillo that lined our route.
We started climbing almost immediately, and our speed slowed to a crawl, the en
gine straining loudly. I was aware of Luis throwing me nervous glances, and of Abby Davenport’s tight-lipped scrutiny of our progress. I’ve already mentioned how the Watson Masner was so haphazardly built, probably some blacksmith’s first attempt at mating a gasoline-powered engine to something with wheels, and the gearing—what little there was of it—was too high for mountain grades. Even those overgrown hills west of Sabana were proving to be a challenge for it.
The temperature rose steadily hotter as the morning progressed, an indicator of the approaching summer season, and the heat from our overworked engine was seeping up through the vehicle’s floorboards. Down below I’d envisioned making the same great time we had after leaving Sabana, but it didn’t take long to realize that wasn’t going to happen. At least not until we reached level ground again.
We were almost at the top when the engine began to sputter, our already laborious pace slowing to a crawl. I glanced questioningly at Abby, but she could only shake her head in helpless ignorance. We managed another couple of hundred feet before the vehicle finally lurched to a halt.
Luis jumped to the ground and shoved a rock under one of the wheels to keep the auto from rolling backward. Abby and I were slower getting out, and for a while the three of us just stood there without a clue as to what had gone wrong. It was Luis who suggested a second check of the fuel, and that turned out to be the problem. We weren’t out, but with a gravity-fed tank and the road’s constant upward grade, gasoline was no longer reaching the forward-mounted valve.
I swallowed back a frustrated curse. If I’d had a wrench I could have loosened the metal straps holding the tank in place, then we could have tipped it forward so that the gas once again reached the valve, but the bolts were too firmly drawn into the wood to be loosened by our fingers, and the floorboards were too tightly nailed to be kicked free. I lifted my eyes to stare morosely at our destination, less than half a mile away.
“We almost made it,” Abby said wistfully.
“Should we walk?” Luis asked.
After a moment’s deliberation, I shook my head. “We should push. It’s at least four miles from the top of the pass to the springs on the other side. That’d take us several hours on foot in this kind of country, but it should be pretty easy to coast on in from the divide, even if we can’t get the car started again. And if we do get it started, we could be there in under an hour.”
Leaving Yuma Page 21
