The Blaze of Noon

by Tim Champlin

  He froze, staring down toward the largest tank. A warm, pre-dawn breeze ruffled the leaves of the shrubs. An animal wariness he never knew he possessed alerted him to danger. Was it just the movement of some nocturnal animal—a mule deer, perhaps, or a peccary? He sniffed the slight breeze and caught only the faint, dry scent of sage.

  Then a chill went up his back as he found himself staring at the silhouettes of two hatless men standing on the edge of the largest tank. He didn’t move, he didn’t twitch, but felt his eyes widening to take in every particle of light the coming dawn provided. His ears picked up the guttural sound of voices. He couldn’t make out the words, but it didn’t sound like English. And white men did not go hatless in this country.

  Deraux shrank back and silently melted into the brush, crouching, carefully placing each foot, holding his breath, hoping the slight upslope breeze would carry the sour odor of his sweat-soaked clothing away from the two men. His heart thudded in his ears, shutting out other small sounds. Who were these men? Possibly only wandering Papagos. Everyone who crossed this desert knew of, and used, these high tanks. But the pair might also be Yuma trackers. He felt certain the alarm had gone out far and wide about the prison break. If any of the prisoners made good their escape, it would damage the reputation of the Yuma pen as a man-breaker from which no one left alive without serving his sentence.

  Then a horse whinnied as if sensing the nearby water. If these were Indian trackers, they’d likely crossed the desert by night on horseback, using moonlight to trail the three fleeing prisoners.

  Regardless of where the trail of Ocano and Rivera led, the Indians would have to break off pursuit to stop here for water. Their horses would need a lot of water, and the men would have to replenish their own. Where were the other two prisoners? Could it be these Indians were following his own solitary trail? He shuddered at the thought. With a standard reward of $50 for each returned prisoner, it was very likely these trackers would not return without all three of the escapees in custody, dead or alive.

  The two Indians he’d spotted had apparently come ahead on foot to scout the tanks for danger before bringing up the horses. How many of them were in the party, he couldn’t tell, but guessed four or five. If he were discovered and still had his Colt and cartridge belt, he’d stand a least a fighting chance.

  Before the light grew any stronger, he glided back into the shelter of the boulders, picking his way carefully to avoid making the slightest sound. Lying down in the cover of the jumbled rocks, he barely kept sight of the largest tank between two creosote bushes. By turning his head, he could see the rosy sky as the rising sun lit up the tops of the Cabezas Prietas to the east. On the desert below could be seen the Camino del Diablo snaking its way among the scattered mesquite and occasional organ pipe cactus. Above and behind him loomed the heights of the Tinajas Altas. A low bird whistle sounded from the tanks and was repeated somewhere downslope. Deraux watched as three more Indians led the tired animals up to drink. With any luck, they were only passing through and were not trackers. But he knew it was probably wishful thinking. The tracks he and Ocano and Rivera had made would have been easy to follow. If these Indians had lost the trail in the hard rocks, all they had to do was to sit at the tanks and look out across the heat-soaked desert toward the hazy Cabezas Prietas, and nothing could move out there during the day without being seen by those keen eyes. Or they could wait for him and the other two escapees to stagger up to the tanks, half dead of thirst and too weak to resist.

  As the sun rose higher and struck the eastern flank of the Tinajas Altas, Deraux wormed his way deeper into the shade. Then it became a waiting game. Hour after hour passed, and he knew the Indians would not move until dark. Curled up like snakes in the hot shade, they’d await the relative coolness of night before moving out. In the meantime, Deraux began to feel like a loaf of bread in a bake oven as the sun heated up the surrounding rocks. The water he’d drunk came out through his pores and instantly evaporated. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d urinated. A powerful thirst returned to torture him. His mouth and throat burned, but he wasn’t yet in the extreme condition of the night before. In spite of his resolve to stay alert, his weary, tormented body slipped into a heat-induced doze.

  When he awoke, the sun had probed his shaded nook, and his open mouth was dry. He licked his cracked lips and crawled back into the shade, noting the sun had slid toward the western horizon, and shadows were growing long. He heard voices. Then the blast of a gunshot made him jump. But there were no more shots or shouts or signs of a struggle. He rested his throbbing head on his forearms and waited. The sun finally disappeared, streaking the blue sky with red and gold. The smell of wood smoke drifted up to him, followed shortly by the aroma of roasting meat. Apparently they’d slaughtered a horse or the mule. His stomach growled loudly. He was weak from hunger and thirst, but could do nothing until they left.

  Under cover of deepening dusk, he bellied forward until he could see the five Indians sitting around their campfire, gorging themselves on half-cooked chunks of bloody meat. He was nearly faint from hunger.

  From their shorter hair, along with odds and ends of white man’s clothing and knee-high desert moccasins, these men resembled the Yumas that Deraux had seen around the prison. One of the Indians stood up, wiping his hands on his sleeveless shirt, and moved toward the tethered horses. He kicked at something and it was then Deraux saw a man lying trussed on the ground. The man didn’t react. Deraux focused intently. Even in the gathering gloom, there was no mistaking the naked barrel chest, bullet head, and huge mustache. It was Ocano. The big man was a prisoner, perhaps injured or wounded. Unless the trackers had surprised him, the big man would have put up a fight to avoid capture. Did they also have Rivera? Deraux saw no sign of him. The wily Mexican was either dead or had somehow eluded the trackers. It was likely they’d keep Ocano alive for the trip back so they wouldn’t have to haul a stinking carcass in the heat. Deraux had no feelings for Ocano, but realized the big half-breed was in for some rough treatment at the hands of his captors. Following Ocano’s return, he’d be punished by solitary confinement in the so-called dark cell, where he could easily go mad with no company, no bunk, nothing to do or read, and barely enough to eat. The big half-breed might even face a noose for killing the head guard, if anyone had witnessed the murder in the confusion of the break. Deraux wondered if the Indians had also confiscated the Colt and gun belt, along with the canteens Ocano carried. He lay still, pondering his next move.

  He didn’t have long to wait. The Indians, talking and laughing, finished eating and tossed the remnants of the meat into the glowing coals of the fire. The meat sizzled as the grease flared up. By the flickering flames Deraux saw the bronzed faces and bodies moving, untying the horses. They swung the full canteens over their shoulders on long straps. He waited impatiently as they hoisted Ocano across the back of a horse and tied his wrists and ankles together beneath the animal’s belly. An argument broke out with harsh, guttural voices and much gesturing—an obvious disagreement as to who had to ride behind the prisoner to steady his weight on the horse. Finally one of them vaulted up behind Ocano, and then they guided their mounts downhill and out of Deraux’s sight.

  Deraux breathed a sigh of relief as the last sounds of their passing died away. He was certain all five had departed, but, to be sure one of their number hadn’t slipped back to lay a trap at the campsite, he forced himself to wait and listen and watch another quarter hour before he moved.

  Finally assured, he cautiously, noiselessly crept down toward the fire. With a stick, he raked out a half-raw, half-charred hunk of meat, blew on it, then tore at it ravenously with his teeth. The juice ran down his stubbled chin and arms. He rescued another piece and ate it. Then he stirred up the fire so he could see by a small flame, found a bone and cracked it open with a rock to suck out the marrow. He’d never tasted anything as delicious as fresh roasted mule, he thought as he leaned back against a boulder and breathed a long sigh, wiping hi
s hands on his filthy blue uniform trousers. His shrunken stomach was full. Life was good, after all. He got up and walked several yards to the edge of the big tank, and lay down on his belly for a long drink of water.

  He heard a slight scuffing noise behind him. A chill went up his back and he whipped around to face this unseen threat. He heard the double click of a cocking pistol, and froze.

  “Ah, señor, I see you’ve already eaten without me,” a familiar voice said. “I was hoping we might have supper together, since this is your last meal.” An oily laugh followed and a figure holding a revolver stepped into the faint firelight. It was Rivera.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Hugh Deraux felt nauseated. All his caution had been for naught. He was so concerned about the Indians, he’d failed to watch for the missing Mexican, assuming he was either dead, holed up, or running like a rabbit.

  “Well, if it isn’t Angel Rivera,” he said, trying to appear nonchalant—and failing. He stood up. “How’d you escape those redskins?” He eyed the Colt with studied disinterest as if he hadn’t even heard the Mexican’s words.

  “I’m hungry,” Rivera said. “Stir up the fire.”

  Deraux moved toward the low, flickering flame, keenly aware of his situation. If he made a break and managed to elude this crazy Mex in the dark, where would he go and how would he survive without water? Since Rivera had the gun, he could wait by the tanks or stalk him.

  Deraux scooped up an armful of brush and several small limbs left by the Indian trackers and threw them on the glowing coals. The dry brush caught and flared up, throwing a glare on Rivera’s ruddy face.

  “I didn’t tell you to light a damned signal fire!” Rivera kicked and scattered some of the blazing branches. The fire died down. He holstered the Colt, then took up a bloody hunk of mule meat, brushed it off, and thrust it on the end of a sharp stick.

  “Your English has improved,” Deraux said, staring across the fire at Rivera’s lean face framed by lank black hair.

  Rivera’s oily laugh made Deraux’s skin crawl. “I tired of playing the stupid, cringing peón. Sit down!”

  Deraux lowered himself to a cross-legged position on the ground, knowing the Mexican would want him seated, so he couldn’t quickly escape or attack, while he ate the meat.

  “How did you escape the trackers?” Deraux asked again, more to distract the man from his deadly intentions, than for information.

  Rivera inspected the meat on the spit. “Ocano was an ox. I was the wolf,” he replied, grinning.

  “That tells me nothing.” Deraux knew the Mexican would want to elaborate and boast.

  “When you dropped, we figured you for a goner. The big hombre took your water and gun.”

  “Your concern for my welfare overwhelms me.”

  Rivera’s expression hardened in the firelight. “You damned jailbirds forced me to guide you here! Why should I care if the sun shrivels you to raisins?” he snapped. “I knew Ocano would shoot me when I was no more use to him.” He paused to pinch off a sliver of meat. It wasn’t done to his satisfaction and he thrust it back over the coals. “Even before the sun went down, the ox had drunk all the water and was going down, too.” He grinned at his own clever use of words. “To make sure the big hombre did not reach the water, I urged him on to the far side of the mountains, walked him an extra five miles until he could walk no more.” He laughed his oily laugh. “I told him the water was only a little farther. By the time he saw he’d been suckered, it was too late. He was on his hands and knees, too weak to fight. I hit him in the head with a rock and took the gun belt and canteens.”

  “Why didn’t you shoot him?”

  “Too noisy in case anyone was on our trail. And I must save the bullets for later.”

  “From what I saw, Ocano was still alive,” Deraux said.

  Rivera shrugged. “No matter. Not my problem now.”

  “Where are the canteens?”

  “That part of my plan went wrong,” the Mexican said. “I got a good drink in one of the smaller tanks down there. . . .” He gestured. “Filled the canteens. Heard a horse whinny close by. Jumped for cover just before the Indians came in sight. No time to grab the canteens.”

  “So the trackers got the canteens . . . and they found Ocano a good ways off . . . ,” Deraux said slowly. “They had to know someone else was here.”

  “I made it look like the ox fell and hit his head on a rock.”

  “Yuma trackers can read signs. They would know that’s not what happened.”

  Rivera glanced apprehensively around at the darkness that was creeping closer as the fire died.

  “But they didn’t find you,” Deraux continued.

  “Ah, señor, you forget that I guided you to these tanks. I know these mountains as well as any Indian. There are many places to hide. It would take days to find me.” He shrugged. “Those Yumas were lazy. They wanted to eat and drink and take the big hombre back for a reward. They did not want to chance being ambushed by a desperate fugitive.” He pulled a smoking piece of mule meat off the stick with his fingers and blew on it before placing it gingerly between his teeth. He chewed for a few seconds. “For them, it would be like thrusting their hands under rock ledges in search of rattlesnakes.” He grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “They might’ve killed me, but one or two of them would be dead as well.” He took another bite of meat, and chewed with his mouth open. “Ah . . . good!”

  Deraux gauged the distance across the low fire. Could he leap onto the damned greaser before he could react? The bone handle of Rivera’s knife protruded from his boot top, and he’d witnessed the Mexican’s quick reflexes in Yuma. Deraux relaxed, waiting for a better opportunity. Now that he’d satisfied his hunger and thirst, he wanted nothing more than to lie down somewhere and sleep. But it might be the sleep of death if Rivera had his way. He decided to try a different tactic. “Well, we’re damned lucky. I guess you’ll be headed back to Yuma.”

  Rivera’s eyes narrowed. Deraux didn’t know if it was a reaction to the smoke. The Mexican’s mouth was full and he continued chewing without bothering to answer.

  “Or travel on with me . . . we’ll stand a better chance together.” Deraux made an effort to sound friendly, even though the last thing he wanted to do was travel with this man.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Rivera said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “I take you back for the reward and get paid for my trouble.”

  Deraux pretended to ponder this for a moment. “We’re marooned on this island without a boat in the middle of the ocean,” he said.

  “Hombre, the sun has made you loco.”

  “Look around,” Deraux said, sweeping his arm at the darkness. “We’re surrounded by miles of desert. We can’t leave these mountains because we have no canteens or jugs to carry water.”

  Rivera paused in the middle of cracking a marrowbone. Deraux almost laughed at the stricken look on the Mexican’s face. Then the man recovered and sneered. “I will find a way. I’ll fill your boots.”

  “My boots have holes in them.”

  “Plug them with moss.”

  “I can’t walk barefoot. You’ll have to carry me.”

  “I could just shoot you.”

  “Then you wouldn’t get the reward, unless you produced my body.”

  “Shut your mouth!”

  The Mexican was clearly frustrated. He savagely pounded the bone with a rock.

  “I could use some more of that meat,” Deraux said blandly.

  Rivera ignored him, peering into the hollow of the jagged bone, then raking out some marrow and sucking his finger.

  Deraux saw his chance, and slowly rocked backward, sliding out of his cross-legged position.

  Rivera put the end of the bone into his mouth.

  Deraux pulled his feet under him and sprang. He landed on the smaller man with all his weight, jamming the splintered end of the bone into Rivera’s mouth. He heard Rivera gag as they slammed to the ground. Deraux jabbed a short, powerful p
unch to the jaw, and Rivera’s head snapped back. The Mexican reached for his boot knife, but Deraux jammed a knee on the man’s wrist, and snatched the knife himself. “I’ll slit your damned throat if you move!”

  Rivera stopped struggling, his wide eyes rolling back.

  Deraux stood up and jerked the wiry man to his feet, holding the knife point against his ribs. He carefully removed the Colt from Rivera’s holster, stepped back a pace, and thumbed back the hammer—praying the weapon was loaded—and slipped the knife under his belt.

  But the fight had clearly gone out of Rivera. He spat blood to one side and put a hand to his mouth where the jagged bone had cut him. He mumbled in Spanish under his breath.

  “Now that we’ve settled that,” Deraux said, “drop your gun belt to the ground.” How was he going to restrain this man? He had no rope or manacles. Then he had an idea. “Let’s find that dead mule.” He buckled on the gun belt, then took up a blazing stick for light and motioned Rivera to move ahead of him.

  The remains of the butchered mule were forty yards away on a slope, downhill from one of the smaller tanks. “Go into the water.”

  “What?”

  “Do what I tell ya. Into the water. Up to your neck.”

  The Mexican waded carefully into the tank until the water was thigh deep.

  “Sit down.”

  He obeyed.

  Deraux holstered the Colt and shoved the blazing stick down for a closer look at the mule, holding his breath against the stench of the bloody offal. Then he pulled the knife from his belt and cut through the large intestine. Pulling out the slippery organ, he cut off a ten-foot section and dragged it to the edge of the tank. “Here. Wash this out. Make sure it’s clean, or I’ll drown you.” He wiped the knife on his pants and shoved it under his belt.

  Rivera began splashing and sluicing water through the intestine.