by Tim Champlin
Lila had looked relieved as she watched Rivera board the stage under Mora’s watchful eyes. The Mexican had no luggage, but had pocketed the $10 in wages Lila had paid him.
“Don’t make it so long until your next visit,” Lila murmured as she held Mora’s arm.
“Probably a month or so,” he’d said. “I’ll be back to repay you.”
“You know I don’t care about that. Now, get on down the road and . . . watch your back. No more accidents before I see you again.”
“Help Quanto with those stage horses.”
“I’ll show him what to do.”
Barring delays, it normally took sixteen hours to reach Yuma. The sun dipped below the horizon in a welter of red and gold, and they followed the meandering desert road along the Gila during the relative coolness of night.
Mora was tired. In spite of jarring chuckholes and the commotion of two scheduled stops to change horses at swing stations, he anticipated sagging into a corner of the coach for sleep during a good portion of the trip. But did he dare close his eyes once it grew dark? He might never open them again. The bone handle of a big knife protruded from the top of Rivera’s left boot. One swift motion, a deadly thrust, and Rivera might skewer him. The Mex could then leap from the slowly moving coach and be gone into the night. And, judging from the hate in the black eyes staring at him from across the coach, Mora had no doubt that’s what the Mexican had in mind.
As long as Tanner, the big, armed railroad man, was awake beside him, Mora sensed no imminent danger. Lila had warned Mora about Rivera, but added that she had him sized up as a cowardly sneak who wouldn’t attack unless he had a clear advantage and was sure he could get away. No doubt Rivera harbored a grudge about being fired and would look for an opportunity to avenge himself. Mora would just have to make sure it wasn’t tonight.
In spite of his resolve, Mora began to fade an hour after darkness settled in. His eyelids drooped and his head fell forward every few seconds as he lost consciousness. Time and again he jerked himself awake, only to see, by moonlight, those unblinking black eyes staring at him.
At the first swing station, Mora approached the driver who was sipping coffee from a tin cup and walking the stiffness out of his legs near the corral.
“How about I ride up top the rest of the way?”
“Already got a guard,” the driver replied without turning his head. The wide brim of the Stetson kept his face in deep shadow from the moonlight.
“Another pair of eyes wouldn’t hurt, and I’ve got my carbine. It’s pretty hot and stuffy inside.” Mora felt he was getting better at this begging. He couldn’t admit the real reason for his request—that he feared a vengeful Mexican who was armed only with a knife.
“OK, suit yourself.” The driver shrugged.
The rest of the night, Mora breathed the fresh desert air as the horses trotted and the coach bounced and rolled. He slipped off the bandoleer and lay down with his rifle, bracing his feet against the thin iron rails around the roof. The empty, moonlit desert looked as peaceful as he’d ever seen it. But he wasn’t fooled by appearances. Out there, beyond his view, nocturnal creatures stalked their prey, from scorpions to lizards to sidewinders, kangaroo rats, burrowing owls, perhaps an occasional pack of wild javelinas. The cycles of life and death continued to rotate. Neither were the five men on the moving coach, along with their six horses, immune from the peril of predators—human ones in the form of the fearsome Apaches.
Toward morning, as the driver was walking the team, Mora dozed for nearly an hour. He jerked awake and grabbed for the rail as they tilted into an arroyo, the motion exaggerated by the tall coach. He looked back. The desert shrubbery was graying and the eastern sky rosy with coming dawn. He sat up and yawned, eyes gritty from too little sleep. Another beautiful, clear day. He inhaled deeply, savoring the moment. The only sounds were the muffled thudding of hoofs, the squeaking of the coach, the faint jingle of trace chains. Even the guard was nodding, half asleep, some instinctive sense of balance keeping him from falling off the box as he leaned on the stubby, twin-barreled shotgun.
All too quickly the moment passed, the fiery eye of the sun lanced across the desert, throwing long shadows out ahead of them, the guard sat up, stretched, and reached down for a drink from his canteen. The driver slapped the lines and the team broke into a trot.
At a swing station, they changed horses and ate a breakfast of flapjacks and blackstrap molasses, washed down with strong coffee. Mora made sure he kept Rivera in sight, but the Mexican, except for glaring at him, made no move in his direction.
Tanner, eyes puffy from sleep, ate in silence.
The sun was straight up when the stage rolled into Yuma.
“I’ll have Quanto report to you here,” Mora said as Tanner was collecting his leather grip from the boot of the stage. “Where will you be?”
“Southern Pacific office at the end of the next block. We’ll open ’er up in early August.” He shook Mora’s hand, and crossed the street toward the hotel.
Mora came around the back of the stage and nearly bumped into Rivera. He wondered if the Mexican had heard the conversation. Lila had said he understood and spoke English, but usually chose not to stoop to using the gringo tongue. What was the man waiting for? He had no luggage. Mora stepped up into the shade of the roofed boardwalk in front of the stage depot and watched the greasy Mexican slouch away, eyeing the store fronts. Finally he disappeared into a saloon several doors down, and Mora breathed a sigh of relief that the hostler was at last out of sight.
He hefted his Marlin and looked around for a hotel. There wasn’t much to choose from, but any kind of halfway comfortable bed would be preferable to what he’d become used to for weeks. He was reluctant to spend any of his borrowed money on such luxury, but found that civilized habits were still ingrained in him. He’d even borrowed a washtub and taken a bath in the sun-warmed spring water at the Sand Tank station. Lila had given him Frank Strunk’s razor. A growth of whiskers might protect his face from the fierce sun, but beards were also hot and itchy and made him feel grimy.
He’d passed through Yuma before and the town never failed to depress him. A more desolate place for a settlement, he could hardly imagine. A westerly breeze lifted and swirled a skein of dust from the street. The wind fanning his face was not cooling; it felt like the devil had opened the door of hell. Were it not for the Colorado River flowing south into nearby Mexico, living here would’ve been impossible, even for the Indians. About thirty years before, the Army had established Fort Yuma on the California side of the river. From all reports, it had been an outpost of civilized living prior to the coming of the railroad, with fine food for the officers, and even an organ. It was a wonder the instrument didn’t fall apart, as did wagon wheels and anything else that depended on a certain amount of moisture in the atmosphere to hold its shape.
He squinted against the glare and surveyed what there was of the town—mostly a collection of adobe and stone buildings of one story that blended into the reddish-tan earth. On a slight prominence, a block away, squatted the three-year old territorial prison. The brown stone and adobe prison might have grown out of the flat promontory overlooking the river. With its sally port, it resembled some medieval fortress in the sands of North Africa. In spite of the heat, a slight shiver ran up Mora’s back at the sight. To him, freedom was everything. He had bought his at the price of his way of life. That barred enclosure represented everything he hated. He wondered what sorts of men were incarcerated there.
The heat, reflecting off the packed dirt street, seemed to shrivel him. He turned away to look for something cool to drink. There was no shortage of saloons. He made a note to avoid the one Rivera had entered, walked on down the block, and turned the corner, finding one whose front was shaded by a wooden porch. The thick adobe walls kept the dim interior somewhat cooler. The bartender lounged in a captain’s chair against the wall near a back door propped open to catch any vagrant breeze. Only three other patrons were in the p
lace. Except for the free lunch on the end of the bar, this saloon served no food.
He leaned his carbine against the bar and pointed at the closest beer tap. The bartender swished his towel at a half dozen flies that had come in out of the heat, and drew off a foamy mug.
Mora drank it down without stopping and shoved the mug across for a refill, and asked the bartender to fill his empty canteen with water as well. The second beer was halfway finished before he paused to taste the lukewarm liquid. Not as thirst quenching as the spring water at Sand Tank station, but he was so dry, anything tasted good. He paid for a third and carried it to a table where he sat, sipping for twenty minutes, planning his next move while munching on a hunk of cheese and bread from the free lunch. The Chocolate Mountains were north of here and closer to the river than the Castle Dome. In this heat, he’d be better off staying near a source of water. Maybe he’d cross over to the fort to see if he could obtain a map of the area. His own mental map was somewhat vague.
All these small clusters of desert mountains were becoming more and more populated with miners and prospectors. In spite of the Apache threat, white men were filing claims and sinking shafts. Riches held an allure that no amount of danger could quell. The mines were more silver than gold, but prospectors were finding enough of the scarce yellow metal to keep small parties of white men coming, scattering over the desolate, rocky wastes, probing the remote cañons and outcroppings. More than two years earlier, a steamship line had established Castle Dome Landing, the first boat stop on the river above Yuma, as a jumping-off point for the nearby mines. The Landing had grown into a small town with a general store, hotel, saloon, stage agency, justice of the peace, and a smelting furnace. In truth, the chances of seeing another human in the desert and mountains east of the river were slim, Mora knew, but just the idea that there were others within a few miles of him created a feeling of being crowded.
He decided to gather supplies and strike north to the nearest clump of mountains along the Colorado. If he found nothing, he’d turn east, away from the river and probe the Castle Dome area. Gold was his objective. Silver was more plentiful, but it was bulky to transport and not as valuable. Leave that to the professional miners who could afford machinery. His was a subsistence existence; he was not seeking riches.
He drained his beer, and rose to his feet, feeling much refreshed. Back out in the sunshine, he headed for the nearest mercantile to buy a wide-brimmed, light-gray hat. A man could not go bareheaded in this fierce summer sun. He asked the clerk for the best place to obtain a burro, and was directed to a stable near the river.
“If he don’t have any donkeys, you might try Fort Yuma across the river,” the clerk said. “They sometimes have pack animals to sell.”
“I’ll be back for provisions,” Mora said, glancing around at the well-stocked shelves.
He hefted his rifle and walked the several short blocks to the river. As the livery stable sign came in sight, he paused to admire the squat railroad bridge built of heavy timbers. On the far side of the Colorado, a string of boxcars and several passenger coaches were parked on a siding, baking in the sun. Mora wondered where Coopersmith might be. Too bad the Englishman had missed meeting Tanner, the construction boss.
By mid-afternoon, Mora was wilting from the effects of the heat and the three beers he’d consumed. But he was satisfied he’d made a good buy on the burro. She was a slightly undersized Jenny with soft gray fur, about four years old. She’d worked as a pack animal only twice, was docile to a load, and hell on snakes, the livery owner assured him.
“Don’t have no idea how sure-footed she might be in the mountains,” the man said in response to Mora’s query. “ ’Cepten that’s pretty much inborn to these animals.”
The animal nuzzled his shirt pocket, smelling for a treat, and Mora rubbed her nose. “Not yet. Maybe later.”
He paid the liveryman and led the burro away by the halter rope. He glanced at the tops of the buildings in the fort across the river. The Stars and Stripes waved lazily in a westerly breeze. He saw no sign of life there, or in the streets of Yuma. Maybe the entire population was inside, seeking refuge during the hottest part of the day.
At the mercantile he carefully spent most of the money Lila had lent him, laying in a stock of dried beans, rice, salt, coffee, the minimum of pans and utensils, a coil of stout rope, a shovel, short axe, an ore hammer small enough to fit in his pocket, two one-gallon metal canteens, a blanket, a coarse canvas sack, a new pair of Levi Straus’s canvas pants, green glass goggles, two blocks of matches, a feedbag for his burro in case he came across some grain, and a slightly used wooden pack saddle that resembled a small sawhorse, a heavy square of canvas that could be used for a pack cover, tent, or ground cover, also purchasing a pipe and tobacco. He bought a Bowie knife big enough to chop sticks and small enough to slice bacon, and stout enough for protection. Lila had let him keep her late husband’s razor. He opted for strips of carne seca, dried beef jerky, since a side of bacon would melt down to lean and rind in no time.
A few Mexicans were abroad on the streets in the eighty-degree coolness of early morning. As Mora secured the pack on his burro, he felt refreshed after nine hours of solid slumber in a reasonably clean hotel bed. He secured the knot and glanced at the clear sky that promised another fair, blistering day. The inner peace he craved had been interrupted by his foray into Mexico, and its aftermath. The desert beckoned.
Trudging along with the river on his left and the grim walls of the Yuma Territorial Prison casting a long shadow across his path from the right, he thought briefly of the hardened criminals caged there. His ex-boss would still be serving a sentence somewhere in California for theft of government property. The man’s own greed and dishonesty, with the help of Mora’s testimony and evidence, had put him there. Mora had never doubted he’d done the right thing, even though he’d brought down the wrath of nearly everyone on his own head. He reflected that most men had only minimal control over their own lives.
He looked back at his newly acquired burro following on the lead. Whatever his own fate was to be, she would share it. “I’ll name you Kismet,” he muttered. “What do you think of that?”
Her reply was a brown-eyed stare and the twitching of her long ears.
He chuckled and turned ahead toward the wilderness, when he caught sight of Rivera eyeing him from across the street.
CHAPTER SEVEN
July 27, 1878
Yuma Territorial Prison
Hugh Deraux awoke to the clanging of an iron cell door, followed by cursing in English and a chatter of excited Chinese voices.
“Damn!” he muttered, rolling over on the top bunk and opening his eyes a crack to stare at the arched, whitewashed ceiling several feet above his head. Barely daylight. The noise had shattered his dream of swimming naked in a clear, cool stream with two voluptuous women. What the hell was the racket this early? It wasn’t time to get up yet. His four cellmates were also stirring, looking out through the iron grate where a swinging lantern revealed three uniformed guards dragging one of the Chinese inmates out of the cell across the passageway.
Deraux rubbed his eyes and followed their gaze. One guard held a shotgun on the prisoners while the other two hefted the thin Chinaman by the arms and legs and carried him up the corridor out of sight. The guard with the gun banged the cell door shut and turned a massive key in the padlock before following.
“Why can’t these damn’ chinks get sick in the daytime?” Deraux muttered aloud, knowing he would not be able to recapture his erotic dream. He sat up and dangled his legs over the top edge of the three-tiered bunk. Early summer daylight was growing stronger by the minute, illuminating their cell through the grated back door that opened into the exercise yard.
“He wasn’t sick. He was dead,” Gilbert Gilliland said, cocking his head next to the grate in an effort to see the departing guards. “It was Sing Quong. Hanged himself, by the look of it. Still had his shirt sleeve tied around his neck. Damn near black
in the face.”
“Poor bastard couldn’t take any more of this place,” José Vasquez sighed, lying back on his bottom bunk. “Who will be next?”
Two three-tiered bunks stood against each wall of the cell, leaving only a narrow walkway between. One of the middle bunks was empty. None of them mentioned the loss of the popular and humorous John Fleming, who’d been killed a week earlier by falling rock while excavating another isolation cell in the hillside. His vacant bed gave the remaining five slightly more room in the ten-by-twelve foot cell. Fleming’s death, and now the suicide of Sing Quong, across the corridor, weighed on their spirits. In the ensuing quiet, Deraux heard only intermittent coughing and snoring from the other cells, and the clanking of chains. Who next, indeed? Although they were taken out to work during the day, close confinement in the cell-block at night, with a long leg chain fastened to a ring in the stone floor, allowed for the spread of disease. Consumption had carried off three men within the past four months.
“Nobody lives forever, even on the outside,” José Vasquez remarked after several seconds of silence.
“Better sooner than later,” Gilliland agreed.
“Shut up that kind of talk!” snapped the whiskey voice of Three-Fingered Jack Ocano, a tough half-breed and senior convict in the group of five. “All of you can whimper and die in here if you want to, but I’m planning on getting my ass outside.”
“And just how you gonna do that?” the black-haired Gilliland asked.
“I’m working on it.”
“When you figure out something, let us know,” Vasquez said.
Three-Fingered Jack growled something under his breath, then said: “Getting killed trying to escape beats dying by inches in here . . . damned bloody floggings for sassing a guard . . . or going crazy with the heat.” He sat up on the top bunk opposite Deraux, sweat matting the black hair on his massive chest. He took his striped shirt and wiped his face and thick mustache, then rubbed a glistening sheen from his bullet-bald head.