by Tim Champlin
“Have a seat, gents!” a female voice called from the open door of the other room. “Grub’ll be right out!”
The voice was followed a minute later by a short, lean woman, carrying a platter of smoking meat and a bowl of steaming beans that she set on the plank table. Her brown hair was clasped at the nape of her neck with a tortoise-shell comb. She wore an apron over her calico dress.
“By heaven, Dan Mora!” She gave him a hug and kiss. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Mora felt his face flushing at this show of affection. “Lost my burro, and my whole outfit,” he mumbled.
“How?” She pulled away, holding his arms, a look of concern on her tanned face.
“Tell you later. But this man saved my life . . . twice.”
She looked where he pointed. Quanto was already seated at the bench, ready to eat. She frowned.
“An Indian?”
“Yeah. Name’s Quanto. He’s a Tarahumara from Mexico. That’s about all I know about him since he doesn’t speak English and I don’t speak his language, or Spanish.”
“Well, I know there are good and bad of all races, but I don’t have any truck with Indians, especially since they killed Frank. But . . . if he saved your life, he can sit at my table any time.” She nodded curtly at the three men, then disappeared out the door through the dogtrot to the kitchen.
Three-quarters of an hour later, the meal was finished. Coopersmith gripped Mora’s hand as he started for the door. “I’d like to stay and see what happens from here on, and why that aborigine has fastened himself to you. But duty calls. With luck, I’ll see you again, although chances are slim.”
“Where you headed?”
“End-of-track at Yuma. Hope to discover when the Southern Pacific will resume construction.”
“Soon as I get some money, I’ll leave what I owe you here with Lila. Might take me a few weeks, though.”
“You don’t owe me anything for his fare or for the ammunition. You’ve given me permission to use your story in my book, and that’s payment enough for me.”
“I hope my story has a happy ending,” Mora said, shutting the stage door after Coopersmith, who was now the sole passenger.
“The end is too far off to be considered just now!” the Englishman called over the driver’s shout as the stage lurched into motion.
“That driver always gallops the team for a bit to take the edge off their feistiness,” Lila Strunk said, coming up to stand beside Mora as he watched the dust cloud rolling up behind the departing stage.
A few minutes later, the stage was only a smudge of brown dirt in the distance. After the rumble of hoofs and wheels had faded and they could no longer hear the crack of the driver’s whip, a sense of isolation crept in to fill the space around the station. In the silence, a light breeze rustled the leaves of giant cottonwoods nearby. Yet Mora’s feeling was one of peace, rather than isolation.
“I was hoping you’d stay for a spell,” Lila finally said, turning to him.
“Lila, I’ve got to ask for your help.”
“Sure. Anything.”
“I’m busted. I need a small stake to get going again.”
“I’ve got a little money saved you can have.”
“Not money. I mean an animal, some food. I know areas in the Chocolate Mountains where I can pick up some float. . . .”
“That’s ’way over north of Yuma, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. I can get there in a week or two, traveling mostly at night.” He smiled down at her. “I’m a prospector. Time isn’t my enemy.”
“You’re welcome to anything I have. There’s a mule I put out to pasture you can take. I’ll buy him cheap from the company for you. He’s getting old and isn’t up to pulling a stage anymore, but he’s still sound of wind and limb, and I believe he’ll hold up for a while longer, if you don’t overwork him.” She walked into the shade of the cottonwoods, letting the warm desert wind fan her flushed face. “Whew! The worst part of this job is standing over a cook stove in this heat.”
“Why do you stay on here?” he asked, putting a foot on the split-log bench under the big tree.
“Where else can I go? What else can I do?”
“A woman like you has a lot to offer. You’d be a success darned near anywhere.”
She gave him a disgusted look and shook her head. “I’m not some young thing you can flatter with that kind of blarney, Daniel Mora.”
“You’ll have to make a choice pretty soon,” he said. “How long before the railroad comes through here and puts you out of business?”
“The Southern Pacific has been stalled at Yuma for a year due to lack of funds. From what I hear, Collis Huntington is getting close to rounding up the public and private money he needs to start building again. Construction will move fast when they do. I’m guessing it’ll be a few months before they reach here. But I’m not sure if they’ll come this way or go south on a straighter line to Tucson.”
“Would they pass up this spring? Those steam engines need a lot of water.”
“Dan, I just don’t know.” She stared off toward the low Sand Tank Mountains.
“Who’s your hostler out there?” He pointed at a figure moving around the adobe corral.
“A Mex named Angel Rivera. A drifter who works cheap. I don’t trust him, but I had to have somebody after Frank died. Rivera dropped off the stage looking for a job at the right time. He sleeps in the stalls and I sleep with a Colt under my pillow.”
“All the more reason you should quit and go to the city.”
“I’ll stick it out until the job ends . . . when the Southern Pacific puts the stage company off this route,” she said, strong resolution in her voice.
He turned to look at this woman. Faint crow’s-feet fanned out from the corners of her eyes from too much squinting into the desert glare. Her regular features had been pretty at one time, he was sure, but wind and sun had dry-tanned the skin of her face and neck to a leathery hue. Yet the blue eyes she turned on him were still bright and fresh.
“But let’s not discuss my situation,” she said. “I want to hear your story. What happened? What about this Indian?” She nodded toward Quanto who hunkered against the log wall, thirty yards away, sipping coffee from a tin cup. He had removed his blue cloth headband and was using it to tie his long black hair behind his head. His slightly hooded eyes stared out from a face that appeared to be carved from mahogany.
While the sun dropped toward the horizon, painting the western sky with breathtaking shades of red and gold, Mora related his tale of prospecting the Sierra Madre Mountains in Mexico, and the events since his accident. “Amazing the trouble one rattlesnake can cause,” he concluded with a grin.
“Man proposes, God disposes,” she said. “He sent you that Indian.”
“I believe He did, but now I don’t know what to do with him.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have a working knowledge of Spanish, and I think he does, too. Could you question him to find out why he’s trailing along with me?”
“I’ll give it a try.”
They moved toward Quanto, who drained his cup and stood up, flexing his legs.
“Daniel Mora es mi amigo,” she began. Then, in hesitant Spanish, she politely asked Quanto about himself. Mora caught a word or two as she proceeded, then lost the thread of her speech.
Quanto apparently understood, since he answered with short sentences, pointing to himself, then to Mora.
Lila looked thoughtful, as if trying to translate the Indian’s replies.
“As near as I can understand him, he says the Spirits sent you to him while he was out hunting. Once he’d saved you from the poison, he felt it was his duty to see you safely back to your own country.”
“Thank him, but tell him I’m fine now and he can go home. Tell him he can have my outfit, if he can snare it out of that gorge.”
She turned to Quanto and translated the message. His reply was longer than usual.
&
nbsp; “He says he is about to be married, but he and his village are extremely poor. He told his intended bride he was coming to the United States with you. He’d helped you, so now he wants you to help him find work here.”
Mora was frustrated. “Surely he knows I’m a prospector, a hermit, an outcast from white society.”
She shrugged. “He thinks, because you’re white, you can get him a job on the railroad. He apparently figures you’re his ticket to a better life.”
Mora sighed. “If he only knew. . . .”
“Even in this desert, the grass looks greener north of the border,” she remarked.
“If I’d known this earlier, I could have sent him on with Coopersmith,” Mora said.
“A foreigner wouldn’t have much say with a hard-nosed construction boss about hiring an Indian.” She brushed back a strand of hair blowing across her face. “I’ve talked to some railroad men who’ve come through here on the stage. They’ll hire Chinese and Irish before they’ll put an Indian on the payroll. You can’t imagine how much all Indians are feared and hated.”
Mora thought for a moment. “Make sure Quanto understands he can have the few tiny nuggets and a little gold dust in a rawhide poke on my dead burro. It should be enough to get his married life started.”
“Do these Indians know the value of gold?” she wondered aloud.
“Hell, Lila, this is Eighteen Seventy-Eight. You can bet all Indian tribes now know what that yellow metal will buy.”
She translated. Quanto responded in Spanish.
“He thanks you, but says he’ll need to work and save his money before he can go home. Apparently he’s been selected by his village to help bring some cash to supplement what little they can grow and raise.”
“Oh . . . damn!” Mora looked away in disgust. “I left home to get away from all this.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, maybe you should think more in terms of escaping to something, rather than from something.”
“I don’t need a lecture from you, too, Lila,” he said plaintively.
“If it weren’t for this redskin, the zopilotes would be feasting on your carcass in the mountains or in the Tumacacori ruins.” She was nothing if not truthful and practical.
“You’re right. I owe him my life, twice over. But how do I repay him?”
“You might offer to take him with you.”
“No. I travel alone. Besides, if he thinks I can lead him to gold, he’s sadly mistaken. I’ve found barely enough color to keep myself going these last few months.” He paused. “Why can’t he stay here and work as your hostler? He helped me at the stage stable in Tucson.” He failed to add that Quanto had little to do with handling the stock.
She turned to the Indian and, with many gestures, attempted to explain what she and Mora had been discussing.
He replied in a few short sentences. Mora could guess the answer even before she translated.
“He says he knows nothing about horses since he and his people have always traveled by foot.” She paused and looked toward a figure moving around the adobe corral. “Besides, the stage company doesn’t pay much. That’s why I’m stuck with Rivera.” After a pause, Mora said: “Let’s see to that mule.”
Might as well change the subject, he thought, since he had no ready solution to the problem of Quanto.
She led the way to the adobe corral. “Rivera, bring Estes over here.”
A lean Mexican with stringy black hair and a thin mustache took a lariat from the snubbing post and shook out a loop. The docile old mule, standing in the shade of the stable, was roped and led to the adobe wall.
Mora tried not to stare at Rivera. This Mexican looked shifty-eyed—not someone he’d care to meet in a dark alleyway. Mora reached to look at the animal’s mouth, but jerked his hand back as the fractious old mule snapped at him with worn, yellow teeth. “Nice disposition,” Mora remarked, noting the scars from old galls on the mule’s hide. One eye was slightly rheumy. This animal’s best days were long past, and Mora didn’t want a beast he might have to shoot for food before he got to Yuma.
“You don’t have a burro or a horse?” he asked.
“’Fraid not. It’s Estes, here, or shanks mare.”
“Hmm . . . think I’ll take up your offer of a stake of money,” he said. “If you can spare it.”
“What have I got to spend it on out here?” she asked as they walked back toward the station.
“Is it enough to pay stage fare to Yuma and buy a burro and supplies?” He felt blood rising to his face and didn’t look at her. Begging never came easy for him.
“Should be . . . if you’re careful.”
“You know I’ll pay you back.”
“I’m not worried about that.” She gave him an easy smile. “It’s an investment in the future. It’s my assurance you’ll be back.”
“I won’t take advantage of our friendship,” he assured her. “I’ll accept the money only on the condition that you get half of any discoveries I make. That’s the standard offer.”
“Agreed.” He thought he noted a twinkle in her eye as she held out her hand and they shook, formally, to seal the bargain. “Now, that’s settled. All we have to figure out is what to do about your friend, Quanto.”
The decision was deferred. Mora and Quanto slept on the hard plank floor that night. Next day they helped Lila with various chores, chopping and splitting the scarce firewood for her cook stove, collecting dried cow chips from the irrigated pasture where a half-dozen cattle grazed.
Shortly after noon, Mora sent Quanto to help Rivera unhitch the team from the eastbound stage while he himself served the food Lila cooked for the nine passengers that crowded into the small room. In less than an hour, the stage was gone and they were washing the tin plates and cups.
“I just keep a little of this cooked grub for myself between stage runs,” Lila said in answer to Mora’s question. “Too hot to be cooking all the time for just myself and Rivera.”
“He comes inside here to eat?”
“Now and then, but I don’t let him make a habit of it. I don’t want him to get the idea that I’m an easy mark.”
“You think he’s liable to try to rob you?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him, if he gets a chance. But I keep him on his heels ’cause I don’t follow a regular routine. I’m rattling around here in the middle of the night, as often as not, when I’d normally be sleeping. He can’t get a fix on me.”
“Does he have a gun?”
“Not that I know of. But I do. And he knows it. He carries a knife in his boot and it’s like a razor, and he’s good with it. Wouldn’t put it past him to slit my throat if he could catch me off guard.”
“Damn, Lila! You need to get rid of him. Fire him. Send him away. Get one of these stage drivers to haul him outta here.”
“Then what would I do for a hostler? I can’t handle the horses and the cooking and everything else by myself.”
“You can’t handle anything if you’re dead.”
CHAPTER SIX
Mora held the carbine across his knees, and let his body roll with the coach’s motion as it lurched into a dry wash. He was relaxed, but alert, aware of the stony, black stare from Rivera who sat opposite him. Seated next to the Mexican was a broad-shouldered man dressed in canvas and corduroy, wearing a long-barreled Colt on his hip, and holding a Stetson in his lap. His name was Russ Tanner, a construction boss for the Southern Pacific Railroad on his way to Yuma.
Things had worked out even better than Mora could have hoped. Lila had fired Rivera that afternoon while Mora stood by with his Marlin conspicuously at hand. The hostler had given her a hard look and spat something in Spanish that made Lila flush under her tan. But she’d turned to the driver of the westbound coach and paid Rivera’s fare to Yuma. The single westbound passenger was Tanner. Mora had introduced him to Quanto while they were all eating Lila’s supper of fluffy flapjacks and bacon.
“Quanto saved me from Apaches. Also, cured my s
nakebite and kept me from dying of thirst in the desert,” Mora had said. “As capable a man as you’ll find. Good tracker and knows the country, too.”
“Mighty handy fella to have around,” Tanner remarked, sipping the scalding black coffee.
“All he wants is a chance to work for the railroad on a construction gang.”
Tanner had set down his cup and looked at Mora, then at Quanto, who was eating and apparently didn’t understand the conversation. “We should resume grading and laying track within a few weeks,” he said. “Does he have any experience?”
“No.”
“Personally I don’t have anything against friendly Indians. . . . I could probably put him on the grading crew, leveling the roadbed out ahead of the track-layers.”
“That would be great,” Mora said. “You won’t be sorry. He’s a good man. A lot of stamina.”
“Well, I’ll be needing some men. All my laborers have drifted away since we stopped construction over a year ago. The way I figure it, one Indian can’t do much harm by himself. And he’d be less trouble than all those damned Irishmen who’re always drinking and fighting each other.”
“I can vouch for the fact that he’s deadly against Apaches, too. Can I tell him he’s got a job, then?”
Tanner had nodded. “Have him report to me at Yuma the last of August and I’ll put him to work. The Chinese get a dollar a day. We pay white men a dollar and a half. If this Indian’s as good as you say, I could probably pay him the higher wage.”
Mora had hardly been able to contain his gratitude, so merely said: “Thank you, Mister Tanner. You won’t regret it. The only thing . . . he doesn’t speak English.”
“Our chinks don’t either, and they get along all right.”
“He’s conversant in Spanish, though.”
“Good. That’ll work.” The construction boss wiped his mouth and got up from the table.
Lila had just entered with a coffee pot and Mora gave her the news. She’d relayed the information to Quanto in Spanish. The Tarahumara grunted in the affirmative, looking pleased. During some further three-way conversation, Mora had told Quanto he must stay at Sand Tank station for two moons and work as a hostler until he could start work for the railroad. The Indian had agreed.