The Blaze of Noon

by Tim Champlin

  Ocano corked the canteen, and the trio trudged silently away through the sandy hillocks.

  Deraux glanced at the glittering ice chips of stars. The moon would shed some light for a few hours yet. They had to make time before daylight. There would be no resting for them. He wondered if the indefatigable Ocano was as sore and tired as he.

  Their boots shuffled forward through the sand, each step taking them farther from the brutal guards and the choking, deadening confinement of Yuma prison. Yet it was also taking them farther from life-giving water and food, and into the temporarily dead furnace of the nighttime desert.

  Hour after hour they trudged, single file, Rivera leading, Ocano second, and Deraux bringing up the rear. Except for the scuffing of their boots and their husky breathing, it was totally silent—a lifeless place.

  Deraux turned and looked back. He was dismayed at how close the lights of Yuma still appeared to be. He thought of the rushing, fresh water of the Colorado, pouring thousands of gallons an hour downstream to empty into the salty Gulf of California. The tiny portion of water they carried was slung over their shoulders like life vests for ocean travelers.

  The ground became less sandy and more crowded with desert scrub as it gradually sloped upward.

  Ocano had assumed command by sheer force of will and dominant strength. As long as Deraux had the Colt, he chose not to waste energy by disputing authority with the big half-breed who, as far as Deraux knew, was armed only with Rivera’s knife. Ocano stopped and they all paused to sip water from the canteens. Deraux was careful not to let Rivera have more than a swallow.

  “Gimme some more,” Rivera gasped as Deraux yanked the canteen away, sloshing a little on the ground.

  “Shut up, you whining bastard!” Ocano said.

  That was the extent of the conversation as they started again, quickly falling into a rhythmic, trance-like pace.

  The moon set, and, except for the faraway stars, there was no light at all. No one lived in that country, and almost no one crossed this way, normally taking the Gila Trail, miles to the north. Besides the water of the Gila, that route also provided danger of capture, of torture and of death at the hands of the dreaded Apaches, or bandits, both American and Mexican.

  A slight movement of air crept across the desert, a forerunner of the dawn. The husking of their boots on the harsh earth, and their labored breathing continued without pause. Ahead of them, the mountains in the distance were discernible only by where their humped backs blotted out the stars.

  Deraux’s legs were like stone; he struggled to lift them, first one, then the other. The all day hard labor with pick and shovel, the tension and strain of the break out, the eluding of capture in Yuma, and the all night trek in the desert had sapped his strength. He’d had no food or rest for at least thirty-six hours, and now dawn was approaching. Dawn—normally a glad, refreshing time of day. But he knew, and feared, what was to follow.

  The sky grew slowly lighter, and the mountains were closer. Or were they? He began to feel as if he were on a treadmill, the dry land running back beneath the thin soles of his boots, the mountains as far away as ever.

  Suddenly it was light and he could see the great folds of the mountains. Each scant desert bush stood out clearly, as evenly spaced as if they’d been planted by man instead of Nature. The eastern sky flowed from dark gray to lighter gray, to pearly gray; the tops of the rounded mountains stood out starkly in the dry, clear air.

  “Hold it,” Ocano said, breathing heavily. “Take a break.” He pulled the whiskey water bottle from his pocket, popped the cork, and gulped down most of the water it contained. He looked at Rivera in the early light. “By God, I didn’t see those before.” He reached out and snatched three slim cigars from the shirt pocket of the Mexican. He bit off the end of one, and said: “Gimme a match.”

  Rivera complied and the big man lit up.

  The aroma of cigar smoke in the fresh air seemed to reconnect the wild desert to man, Deraux thought. Not surprisingly Ocano didn’t offer to share the cigars.

  “If those are the mountains we’re headed for, we got a little off track in the dark.” Ocano pointed toward the gray-green folds of a mountain to the northeast.

  “No, señor,” Rivera replied. “Those are the Gilas. There is no water there. We must reach the Tinajas Altas Mountains. There.” He pointed.

  “Shit!” The big half-breed couldn’t hide his shock as he gazed at the distant mountains, low in the southeast. His ruddy face had taken on a gray cast in the dawn light.

  “The tanks are on the east side,” Rivera continued.

  “How far?”

  “Thirty miles.”

  Ocano seemed to get a grip on himself. His eyes narrowed and he puffed on the cigar, blowing clouds of white smoke that drifted off on the light morning breeze. It was still relatively cool, even as the blazing orb shoved its head above the eastern horizon with a silent explosion of light. The new day had begun.

  “We’d better get moving,” Deraux said after several seconds of silence.

  “I’ll say when we go,” Ocano retorted. He sat down heavily on the ground, and proceeded to finish his smoke.

  Deraux glanced at Rivera. The Mexican had a wolfish look on his lean face, as if he’d just seen his bigger, stronger prey begin to weaken. Deraux took off his straw hat and raked his fingers through his hair. Then he hunkered down, stretching his back muscles, giving his tired legs a rest. He didn’t want to sit down for fear he wouldn’t want to get up again. And he was averse to showing any weakness in front of Rivera, who was still standing.

  The aromatic cigar smoke smelled better than Deraux’s own dusty, sweat-soaked clothing. He was so weary, he could have stretched out and gone to sleep on the spot. But that would have meant certain death; there was no shade for miles—only some tiny desert shrubs. He knew the worst part of their trek was just beginning. They had less than six quarts of water among them. He uncorked his canteen and tipped it up, swishing the water around in his mouth before swallowing. Not enough to replenish the moisture he was losing, but just enough to fool his mouth and throat.

  “Water, señor?” Rivera asked, holding out a hand.

  Deraux passed the canteen to him, watching carefully as the Mexican drank. “Enough!” He sprang up and grabbed the canteen as Rivera took a second large swallow.

  “I must have water,” the Mexican said.

  “You’re the smallest one here,” Deraux said. “You need less than any of us.”

  “If I die, you will not find the tanks,” Rivera said softly.

  “That damned whiskey has dried you out,” Deraux said. “I’ll give you enough water to keep you going. We’re all going to make it.”

  Ocano flipped away his cigar butt, then rolled to his hands and knees and pushed himself slowly to his feet like a bull buffalo.

  With no more conversation, they started again, facing the rising sun. The slanting rays struck Deraux’s face, feeling for the skin, probing for the moisture within. Like the hull of a ship that holds out the deadly sea, his envelope of skin and thin clothing would have to hold out the deadly rays of the sun. It would start with his exposed face and hands, searing the flesh, cracking the lips, burning the eyes, striking through the cloth of the white underwear shirt and the dark pants.

  They plodded southeast, heads down, hat brims shading eyes, puffs of dust rising with every step. A half hour later the ground began to heat up. Deraux felt it through his thin soles and worn socks. The sweat and dust worked together, stinging his eyes, coating his cracked lips, working up into his nostrils, causing a gritty, salty taste in his mouth. Now and then, he glanced over his shoulder. All sign of Yuma had passed over the horizon. He half expected to see pursuing Yuma trackers. But there was no one. If the guards knew what direction they’d taken, perhaps they assumed the desert would do their work for them. The three of them were committed. They had reached the point of no return. It was either go forward and find water, or die in the attempt.

 
; They passed the last of the scant growth of shrubs and faced an expanse of crusted earth, whitened by salt deposits—perhaps the bed of a lake dried up before man had appeared on the great desert. It was cracked and interlaced by furrows where rains had beaten on the thin crust in times past, maybe even covering the harsh earth with a sheet of water for a time. The sun would have its way, as it always did, drying up the water, then the mud, then driving what little moisture was left deep down into the ground, cracking the dried upper crust.

  Deraux found a big, dirty bandanna in the pocket of the uniform pants and tied it around his nose and mouth in a feeble attempt to protect his skin from the rays reflecting up from the whitened lake bed, and to filter some of the heat and dust from his lungs. The cloth over his face was nearly stifling, but better than what was out there, he thought, slitting his eyes at the wavering heat waves rising from the sunbaked earth. How much farther, he wondered. Rivera had said thirty miles. How fast were they walking? Perhaps three miles an hour. Ten hours to the tanks. Three hours since sunrise. They’d covered less than a third of the distance, and Ocano had drained the rest of the water in the whiskey bottle and one of the two-quart canteens he carried. He left it to Deraux to share his one canteen with Rivera. More moisture was being sucked from their bodies by the furnace heat than was being replaced. Even if they survived sunstroke, Deraux estimated they’d need at least three gallons of water apiece to make this crossing. Fourteen or fifteen hours of daylight this time of year. Before dark they would be at the safety of the tanks, or they’d be running wildly, out of their minds, only to fall, belly down, their bleeding hands clawing senselessly at the sandy earth for water that was not there.

  While Deraux’s vision of the ever-retreating Tinajas Altas Mountains was blurred by wavering heat waves, he turned his sight inward and with his mind’s eye saw the flowing water tap in the mess hall at Yuma prison. There was always plenty of fresh water there. Mormon Bob Heenan was still there, drinking his fill, then going to lie down on his bunk in the shady cell. Heenan had been wise not to join the break. But, then, he had only a few more months to serve.

  The sun crept overhead and began its long, torturous slide toward the western horizon behind them. But, to Deraux, the fiery brass ball was fastened to the sky, so slowly did it seem to move. The heat radiated like a blast furnace, too intense and painful to be ignored by thinking of other things. His head throbbed, and he stumbled forward, automatically placing one foot ahead of the other, disconnected from the thought of walking. He sensed he was on the verge of sunstroke, and longed to pour the rest of the canteen over his head to cool himself. But he was still rational enough to know if he were to survive, he must only sip the water. He was not even aware of the other two men as he paused and uncorked the canteen, poured a little past his parched lips, swishing the warm, metallic-tasting water around in his mouth before spitting it back into the canteen. He shook the canvas-covered container, estimating it contained less than a pint. It was some relief to lubricate his mouth, but his body cried out for more moisture, for floods of cooling water. He swigged another mouthful, swirled it around, and swallowed.

  Rivera and Ocano trudged ahead, unaware he’d stopped. Deraux started forward, but made no attempt to catch up.

  The fear of capture no longer bothered him. It was a remote danger, compared to the fierce natural enemy that had them locked in mortal combat. But Deraux relied on his will to live and his cunning to see him through.

  He had not figured on his weakness.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Deraux slid in and out of consciousness, automatically shuffling one foot ahead of the other, boots husking on the parched earth. His mind wandered, disconnected from present time and place.

  He caught his toe on a half-buried rock and tumbled forward like a disjointed puppet, tearing the knees out of his pants, and bruising the heels of his hands as he broke his fall on the scorching earth. Jolted back to the present, he started to rise, but discovered that it required great effort, as if his arms and legs were not used to working together. Erect again and swaying, he sensed the blisters burned on the bottoms of his feet through the worn boot soles and socks.

  Pulling down the bandanna, he sucked in deep breaths of the lung-withering air. Several rods ahead, two dark figures continued bobbing away from him, their outlines blurry through the shimmering heat waves.

  Deraux looked over his shoulder—nothing on their back trail but a wavering dust devil silently skipping and spinning across the uneven desert.

  In a flash of clarity, he knew he was going to die here. Years from now, some lone traveler on this anvil of the sun would stumble across his bleached bones scattered by scavenging buzzards.

  He had no choice but to keep going. He shuffled forward again, breathing heavily, eyes squinted against the blinding glare.

  Suddenly a great weakness engulfed him and he felt himself falling into a black hole.

  Consciousness returned slowly. He opened his eyes, but could see nothing. Was he dead? No. The hard ground pressing against his cheek told him he was still in the physical world. Darkness had fallen.

  With a great effort, he pushed up to a sitting position, pausing for a wave of dizziness to pass. Moonlight was silvering the landscape. He brushed sand from the parched skin of his face. His cracked lips were crusty, and he reached for his canteen. It was gone. He searched the ground around him, but the bright moonlight revealed only scuffmarks and footprints in the sand. The boot prints were too big to be Rivera’s. Ocano. The big man had seen him fall and come back to rob him of his last half pint of water. His gun belt was also missing.

  “The bastard should have put a bullet in my head and been done with it,” he muttered aloud. In the enveloping stillness his voice rasped like dry cornhusks. He fumbled on the ground and found a smooth pebble to place in his mouth. He’d heard this sometimes started some saliva. It didn’t. He was too dry.

  His feet felt as if they were glued to the insides of his boots. Fearing his feet were a mass of broken blisters and blood, he tugged at his left boot. But he lacked the strength to remove it.

  Hate began to seethe up from deep within him. He would live to get that damned Ocano, somehow.

  Struggling unsteadily to his feet, he spat out the dry pebble. No one in sight. From the looks of things, he might have been the last human on a deserted planet. The Tinajas Altas Mountains loomed up ahead, how close he couldn’t tell. The dry air and the moonlight made distances deceiving. He put on his straw hat, took a deep breath, and began walking. Hate fueled his strength. He was determined not only to reach the tanks, but to catch up with the pair who’d robbed and abandoned him for dead and kill them both. Plotting and imagining just how he would do this furnished his mind with something to work on as he trudged forward, tongue swollen, throat burning, unable to swallow. His sensitive skin prickled under his clothing, as if he were covered with fine sand. Probably grains of salt from dried perspiration. The sunburned skin of his face felt stretched across his cheek bones and forehead.

  I’m dried out, he thought. If I don’t find water soon, I’m a dead man.

  By the time the moon was on the wane, he’d stumbled onto a faintly rutted road that trended along the eastern side of the mountains. But to his left, winding through the scattered greasewood and ocotillo, was another faint trail. He paused to examine it. This trail was not marked by wheels, but by the hoofs of animals—and the boots of men.

  He walked up the steadily rising slope, the moon lighting the barely discernible trail. Higher and higher. There was no wind, no movement. His harsh breathing sounded loud in the silence. The sandy soil gave way to rocks that were still warm from heat absorbed during the day. Now boulders humped up from the flank of the mountain.

  He looked back across the silvery desert. This was his last chance. He wouldn’t survive another day without water. Where were Ocano and Rivera? Lying dead, or unconscious out there? They’d robbed and left him to the mercy of the sun. Now the desert may have cl
aimed them as well.

  His weakness was apparent as he paused to catch his breath and rest his legs, aching from the climb. Where was the water? He’d been this way once before, a long time ago, but everything looked different now, especially in the dark. He might have to wait until daylight to scout for the tanks.

  Something moved. Something splashed! He ran awkwardly toward the sound. Some creature flashed past him, running for shelter in the rocks and brush. Mesquite branches raked his face, knocking off his hat. He paused, panting, and stared intently left and right, his vision trying to penetrate the deep shadows. Then he looked down the slope. Right below him was a great hole in the smooth granite. It was rounded and several yards across. The last of the moonlight reflected off the pewter-colored surface of the water that appeared to be covered with algae and dust. He stumbled forward, dropped to his knees to sweep the surface clean. Then he scooped up a double handful of water and drank, then drank some more. Thank God! He didn’t slow down to taste the water as it flowed into his mouth and down his throat. His tissues soaked up the moisture like parched desert soil. He splashed it into his face, then plunged his whole head under, rinsing the dust and sand out of his nose and eyes and hair. Finally he sagged down weakly on the warm rocks.

  The moonlight was gone when he rolled over, put his mouth to the surface, and sucked up more of the life-giving liquid. This time he tasted the gamey flavor, but he ignored it. This was life or death—no time to be squeamish. But he was glad he couldn’t see the wigglers, the tiny pink bladders, the water spiders—all the tiny creatures he knew inhabited this pool.

  He finally stopped drinking, feeling his stomach beginning to rebel. He’d drunk too much, too fast. To keep from throwing up, he carefully crept away upslope and lay, face down, on the smooth rock under some bushes to rest his stomach. His stomach relaxed.

  In his exhausted state he dozed. When he awoke, the sky was just beginning to gray with coming day. He got up, feeling stiff and sore, and started downhill toward the big tank for another drink. The water had started his gastric juices flowing and a healthy hunger gnawed at his stomach.