The Blaze of Noon

by Tim Champlin

  “I see. When surnames were evolving, one or more of my forebears apparently built barrels. Each of us has come from somewhere . . . including him.” He nodded toward Quanto.

  “Mister Coopersmith, by any chance, do you speak Spanish?” Mora asked.

  “Definitely not. One of several gaps in my education.”

  “I’ll have to wait a little longer, then, to find a translator so Quanto and I can speak to each other.”

  The Britisher looked surprised. “You’re traveling together, yet you can’t communicate?”

  “Oh, we can communicate on a rather basic level. We just can’t do it in words.”

  “Intriguing. Would you like to tell me more?”

  “I prospect for gold in this vast territory,” Mora said. “I’d gone down across the border into the Sierra Madre to try my luck . . . ,” and he proceeded to recount his accident, his meeting with Quanto, and all that had transpired since.

  Coopersmith did not interrupt as the miles rolled past under their rocking coach and the woman either slept or ignored them with her eyes closed.

  “Absolutely amazing!” he breathed when the tale was brought current. “All of that in a fortnight! Even stories brought back by British soldiers from Afghanistan can’t top that.” He reached into his coat pocket and produced a notebook and pencil. “Do you mind if I jot a few notes? I’m gathering information for a book on the American West.”

  Mora was suddenly apprehensive. Had he sought refuge and anonymity in the desert only to wind up telling his story to a reporter? “Do you write for a newspaper or magazine?”

  “No. I’m doing this on my own. Actually the British ministry sent me to report on the construction of the Southern Pacific Railroad extending east from California and soon to be crossing this desert.”

  “You Brits had railroads before we did. Why do you need a report on this one?”

  “Of course we have railroads at home and in a few places around the world, but it’s my job to report the details of construction, supply, the fending off of hostile natives, and the like. The ministry thinks this might help save the British government a few pounds and worries when they begin construction in some of our remote desert colonies. I’m not interested in how it’s being financed, or by whom. The competition between wealthy, unscrupulous American financiers, making deals, bluffing and buying each other out, does not apply in England. Frankly that sort of thing bores me, anyway. I’d rather be in the field inspecting the construction of the road and talking with civil engineers, laborers, track bosses, and the like. As long as I do my work properly and turn in a timely report, my chief doesn’t care that I’ll be gathering material for my own book.” He set the notebook in his lap, extracted a large, blue bandanna from his inside coat pocket, and mopped his face and neck. “Beastly hot. Did I say it was hot in India? This is the next thing to Hades, but . . . well, when I volunteered for this assignment, I told them heat didn’t bother me. Yet I got the job mainly because I work cheap.” He smiled.

  “So this book you’re writing,” Mora said, bringing him back on track, “is about what exactly?”

  “I’ll decide when I find it,” he said simply. “No preconceived notions. Tales such as yours . . . and others. The American West is vast, and I could write volumes on what I see and experience here. But I’ll have to cram it all into one book. The common Englishman has an abiding interest in the American West. If my prose is compelling, this book will sell well back home.”

  At one o’clock they pulled into Stanwyck station. “Thirty minute stop for lunch!” the driver called, climbing down. He and the shotgun guard strolled off toward the corral to have a smoke while the hostler unhitched the team.

  The four passengers got out to stretch and check the bill of fare. An odor of rancid grease assaulted Mora’s nose as they entered the low, adobe building with a packed dirt floor. He and Coopersmith exchanged glances. “Food’s included in the fare,” the Englishman said. “Can’t be finicky, or we go hungry.”

  “Reckon that’s how she keeps her figure?” Mora grinned, jerking his head toward the woman passenger who’d entered the room, sniffed, then just as quickly retreated outside and headed for the privy.

  “Whalebone probably has a lot to do with it,” Coopersmith said with a twinkle in his hazel eyes.

  Mora was beginning to like this man.

  The lean stationkeeper sported lanky black hair and a hangdog look as he entered from the adjacent kitchen. Without bothering to brush the dead flies from the wooden table, he set down a tray, four tin plates, a small iron pot of frijoles, a plate of curled-up fatback, and something that resembled discs of fried dough. “Either dry flapjacks or fat tortillas,” Mora commented when the man departed.

  The stationkeeper returned with a tin pitcher and cups.

  Quanto, Mora, and Coopersmith sat on the benches to eat. Mora poured and gulped down a cupful of the weak tea before he felt the grit between his teeth. “Ugh! Could’ve taken some of the desert out of this.”

  Coopersmith set down his own cup. “A little sand for your craw,” he remarked, clearing his throat.

  Quanto ate silently. But the way he put away the food showed how hungry he was. Mora guessed the Indian ate a lot when he could get it and stoically fasted when times were lean. The rhythms of life were probably all the same to him, for he seemed to take things as they came. Yet, Quanto might not have these characteristics at all. The Tarahumara couldn’t speak English and showed little emotion, which effectively concealed his innermost thoughts.

  While they were finishing, the woman came into the room and helped herself to a long drink of the gritty tea, then departed without saying a word. Mora watched her through the glassless window as she strolled around behind the station. He noticed her glancing about as if to be sure she was alone, then she removed a small silver flask from her handbag, uncapped it, and tipped it up.

  Mora nudged the Englishman and pointed.

  “That’s one way to get through the day,” Coopersmith commented.

  “Maybe it’s our company,” Mora said. “Last time I bathed was in a river, fully dressed. And it’s been two weeks since I stood next to a razor.”

  A team of frisky mules pulled the coach thirty miles to the next swing station where a six-horse hitch replaced them.

  During the long afternoon while the woman dozed and Quanto stared out the window at the passing desert, Mora and Coopersmith talked quietly. Mora found himself trusting this man and gradually let slip details of his own past—how he happened to be here.

  The English writer seemed genuinely interested. He took more notes. “Just to stimulate my rusty memory,” he said. “You can rest easy. I won’t use your name in anything I write.”

  After entertaining his own thoughts for months on end, Mora felt a genuine relief to be able to converse with an intelligent man. He’d almost forgotten such people inhabited the world. He instinctively trusted this man.

  As the hours wore on, heat and fatigue took their toll, and the conversation flagged.

  It was past ten o’clock that night when they pulled into Maricopa Wells, the largest stage stop between Tucson and San Diego. The driver told them it was one of the many abandoned Butterfield Stage Line stations resurrected after the war. The improvements were obvious. The presence of plentiful water from spring-fed ponds had allowed the owner to expand. The complex consisted of a dozen stone outbuildings, a store and blacksmith shop, a large corral and stable, a herd of cattle and sheep, along with crops and hay fields. Considerable trade was carried on with the Maricopa Indians as well as with passing freighters and stage passengers.

  The woman passenger departed, her traveling bag carried away by a well-dressed older man.

  The trio of remaining passengers lingered for an hour, while the driver and guard were switched, as well as the team.

  “Wouldn’t mind spending a little more time here,” Coopersmith said as the three men sat down at a dining table.

  “An oasis in the
desert,” Mora concurred, eyeing the beefsteak and boiled corn that was set in front of them. Thick adobe walls and wooden floors insulated the room from the outside night. He dug into his food, glancing at the long bar that stretched across one end of the spacious dining room. It was backed by rows of champagne and whiskey bottles. From somewhere in an adjoining office he could hear the rattle of a telegraph key.

  “The Southern Pacific will likely reach this station by early next year,” Coopersmith said.

  “Really?” Mora had been out of touch with human events for many weeks.

  “Construction’s been interrupted for a few months at Yuma, and most of the crew laid off for now, but I’ll still get a story from the track bosses.” He looked around the spacious room at the men coming and going. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if Maricopa Wells makes a bid to be the territorial capital. Frankly, I think it’s going to be Prescott. Better climate, more centrally located. Although the Old Pueblo at Tucson has a claim, as well as that growing, upstart town, just north of here, named Phoenix.”

  Coopersmith had obviously done his research before coming to America. In spite of the fact that he was surrounded by evidence of advancing white civilization and its amenities, Mora found his thoughts drifting to the windswept mesas, the silence of the long desert spaces. Even as a young man he’d had a natural affinity for solitude. Only when he’d finally been forced to leave California had he found what his nature craved. As much as he was thankful for the company of Coopersmith and the life-saving efforts of Quanto, he missed the blessed silence and beauty of the desert.

  “Might I inquire what your plans are after you reach Sand Tank?” Coopersmith asked.

  “Try to get a stake from Lila Strunk, the station-keeper, and go back to prospecting.”

  “What about your friend, here?” He nodded toward Quanto.

  “Lila can speak Spanish. I’ll ask her to explain that he needs to go back to his people, since I’m basically a loner.”

  The Englishman nodded, looking thoughtful. “Your bandoleer has a lot of gaps in it,” he observed. “This store would be a good place to stock up on cartridges. Ammunition of all kinds here.”

  “I have no money, and I can’t take yours.”

  “Consider it an investment. What about your Indian friend’s revolver?”

  “He’s got only five shots in it. We didn’t stop to ask that Apache for more.”

  “Then it’ll be my pleasure to make sure both of you are well supplied.”

  Mora was uneasy with this, but didn’t know how to refuse gracefully.

  “We already owe you for Quanto’s stage fare.” Coopersmith waved off the objection. “Let’s go take a look.”

  The men got up and started into an adjoining room that held a dry-goods store.

  When they reported back to the stage with plenty of fresh cartridges, they discovered the back axle of the Concord had split. The coach was on a jack and the rear wheels already removed. It would be several hours before a replacement could be made in the wagon shop. The three men were shown to a bunkhouse where they stretched out for some welcome sleep uninterrupted by the bouncing coach. Mora was thankful that none of the employees of this station showed any intolerance of his Indian companion. Maricopa Wells was constantly a-swarm with Mexicans, Indians, whites, and mixed-bloods of all kinds. Business was booming and only hostile Indians were unwelcome.

  It was well past sunup before the repaired coach, pulled by a fresh six-horse hitch, was ready to roll west out of Maricopa Wells.

  A lean, leathery man threw a small grip into the rear boot and joined the three men inside the coach. “Howdy, gents,” the newcomer said. “Dane Aston.” He shook hands with the two white men and nodded at the Indian. “I’m a driver for this line. But I’m a passenger to Yuma this trip.”

  “How far to Sand Tank station?” Mora asked.

  “Thirty-five miles.”

  “Any threat of Apaches from here on?” Coopersmith asked, fingering the bird’s-head grip of a nickel-plated Colt Lightning that was holstered, butt-forward, at his belt. The Englishman had changed into worn Levi’s and a light cotton shirt. The gray suit had disappeared into his luggage.

  Aston laughed shortly. “Are there thorns on a cactus? Hell, yes, they’re a threat! It’ll be a hundred years before those red devils are under control or killed off. We sure ain’t gonna make peace with them. They’re fightin’ to hang onto this desert like it was prime real estate.” He turned to look out the window. “Matter of fact, I’ll show you something up ahead about a mile or so. It ain’t just the whites the Apache been warrin’ with.” He was silent for several minutes, scanning the terrain. “There, we’re coming up to it now. Take a look at that.” He pointed.

  Looming up on the side of the hill, in bold outline against the blue sky, stood a rude cross upon which hung a dried body.

  “About two years ago, the Maricopas crucified that Apache.”

  The dried arms and legs were fastened with cords and the head hung forward, a few tufts of long hair still blowing about the withered face. Mora felt a cold chill run up his sweaty back at the grim sight.

  “The Maricopas don’t profess the Christian faith,” Aston continued, “but this much they learned from the missionaries . . . that crucifixion was a type of torture practiced by the whites.”

  “I’ve read that scalping was another,” Coopersmith said in an awed tone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The barbaric sight of the crucified mummy put a damper on conversation, and the white men joined Quanto in entertaining their own thoughts while the miles unwound behind the swaying coach.

  The stage had no escort, but driver and shotgun messenger, plus the four male passengers, were all armed. Apaches would pay dearly for any attack.

  Glancing at Quanto’s impassive face, Mora wondered if the Indian was even thinking about his tribe’s ancient nemesis. Not likely. Quanto fought fire with fire. He’d used their own stealthy tactics to waylay the Apache in the mission church. His relaxed demeanor, and half-closed eyes were deceiving. The Indian would not be caught unaware.

  Mora sighed and settled back against the dark leather seat. Even though he enjoyed his conversation with Coopersmith, it was a relief to be silent for a time. Silence fostered thought. Talking fatigued him, and he’d run his mouth too much the past few days. He envied Quanto who had two reasons to remain quiet—the obvious barrier of language and the social barrier between him and the three white men.

  More and more, as he pursued the solitary life in this vast, arid country, Mora relaxed into himself, realizing this was apparently the life that suited his natural tendencies. He couldn’t imagine how he’d functioned in a bureaucracy, or in the hectic world of family life. It wasn’t that he was selfish or self-centered. He liked many people, and loved his family. But humans could best be appreciated en masse, from a distance. Mankind was loveable; individuals often were not. Society would probably be more peaceful if there were more hermits, he reflected. But he just as quickly realized that there would then be fewer children and no parents to rear them, probably fewer inventions, like the steam engine and photography, which had built on previous discoveries. He’d read that primitive man, who’d lived in small, societal groups, had been just as warlike as modern man, but their clashes were not as large. Human nature had not changed—only the capacity for killing. Now massive armies marched and slaughtered each other at the behest of politicians and generals.

  The thought of politicians made him squirm. Ulysses Grant was finally out of office. If that man had never been elected, Mora might still have his job and his life in California. Or, if Grant and his greedy minions had not been so corrupt—the Whiskey Ring, Secretary of War Belknap accepting bribes from an Indian trader, the stealing of funds from the sale of public timber. . . . If, if, if. . . . A man had to deal with what was, not with some imaginary, perfect world.

  He turned to squint at the outside glare of sunshine, shucking his mind free of these morbid m
usings. He was done with all that, and had no second thoughts about exposing the corruption of his boss. No use raking up the painful past. The haunts of men and their problems were behind him. His life was in this wilderness now, and he’d reconciled himself to the fact that he’d die here of heart failure, old age, or the elements, or even by bullet or arrow from some hostile. Of course, he’d take normal precautions, but something was bound to get him, sooner or later.

  The desert terrain was mostly level from Maricopa Wells to Sand Tank station, and, much of the time, the driver walked the team to keep from wearing them out in the heat over the longer, thirty-five mile stretch. The coach rocked gently and Mora dozed off. In late afternoon, he awoke, perspiring, as the coach pulled into the oasis at Sand Tank station.

  He climbed down, stiff-jointed, with the others, and wiped his face on his sleeve. “Thought you were going on to Yuma,” he said to Coopersmith.

  “Sustenance,” the Britisher replied.

  “Forty-minute stop for supper!” the driver called over his shoulder as he and the guard and the dead-heading driver walked off by themselves.

  Mora paused at the familiar sight. Chinked cottonwood logs, weathered silver gray on the outside, formed walls two feet thick. Two separate rooms were joined by a roofed dogtrot, covering a bubbling spring—the only water within miles. Mora knew that when the builders of the Butterfield Stage Line appropriated this scarce water as their own nearly thirty years before, it had infuriated the Apaches. During the war, Butterfield had abandoned the station and the Apaches had assumed their numerous raids had discouraged the white encroachers. But the building had been rebuilt in the 1870s, and the unguarded spring once more taken over for use with a stage station. Six months ago, shortly after Mora’s last visit here, an Apache raid had killed Frank Strunk, the stationkeeper. Lila had survived only because she’d been tending one of their irrigated fields at the time, and hid until the raiders made off with their horses.

  If there were any one place Mora could call home since he’d fled California, this was it. He followed Coopersmith and Quanto into the low-ceilinged room. The aroma of fried steak and onions rang the bells of memory. The last time he’d smelled that, Lila Strunk had been serving it.