The Blaze of Noon

by Tim Champlin

  The blazing stick flickered out to a glow and, for several minutes Deraux stood in the dark while Rivera washed the tubular organ.

  The splashing stopped. “That’s as good as I can do in the dark, señor.”

  “Make damned sure the shit’s cleaned out. That’s gonna carry your drinking water.”

  The splashing started again with renewed vigor. Several minutes later, Rivera looped the gut over his shoulder and waded ashore.

  When they returned to the fire, Deraux drew the Colt. “Rip the sleeve off your shirt.”

  Rivera obeyed without question in the face of the loaded pistol.

  “Tear it into strips and tie one end of that gut tight. Fill it with water from the big tank over there, then tie off the other end.”

  While Rivera was occupied, Deraux piled the remains of the brush and small branches onto the fire so that it blazed up brightly. The moon had not yet made its appearance.

  Rivera dragged the gut, loaded with water, up to the firelight and dropped it. Deraux felt the black eyes darting hate at him. But there was fear in those eyes as well. Deraux knew that, lacking a weapon, the Mex was no match for him. But he also knew that, if his vigilance relaxed, he could wake up dead.

  Still holding the gun, Deraux backed down to the tank and waded in, submerging himself into a sitting posture. Several minutes later he waded out and ordered Rivera back in as a means of keeping him semi-restrained until Deraux could slit the sides of his wet boots and pull them off. He threw the ruined socks into the blaze, then examined his feet in the firelight, and dried them. They were blistered and raw, but at least were washed clean of blood and dirt. He cut down the tops of his boots to fashion clumsy, high-top shoes. Then he sliced off one leg of his long underwear to wrap his feet after partially drying it close to the flames. The next time he trekked this desert, he’d be as well prepared as circumstances would allow. He carefully wrapped his sore feet and slipped on the wet shoe boots. His feet felt much better. While Rivera still soaked up to his chin in the tank, Deraux ate more of the roasted haunch. With the sleep he’d had, along with the food and water, his strength was restored, although he could still use several more hours of rest.

  But that could wait. They’d move out tonight, pointing north by east, to intersect the Gila Road, miles away. He didn’t care if the trackers saw the fire from several miles out. If the Yumas decided to return and add to their prisoners, Deraux and Rivera would be long gone. Traveling at night would avoid the worst heat, would keep the Indians from spotting them on the open desert, and would also solve Deraux’s problem of how to restrain the wily Mexican.

  He pointed the gun at the tank. “All right . . . out!” He motioned with the pistol. “If you haven’t soaked the stink off by now, I can travel upwind of you. Loop that water gut over your shoulder and let’s move out.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  July 31, 1878

  Northeast of Yuma,

  Arizona Territory

  It took the better part of a week for the peace of the desert to seep back into Daniel Mora’s soul.

  From Yuma, he led his new burro, Kismet, north, along the east side of the Colorado River. For two days he endured the intense heat of midsummer before reverting to his practice of resting during the hottest part of the day, then setting out at sunset and traveling well past dark when the moon was high. He would then camp for a few hours of sleep, only to rise an hour before dawn to move until the morning sun grew too hot for comfort.

  The third morning he filled his canteens and two small water kegs and struck away from the river, toward the Chocolate Mountains. These desert ranges were neither as high nor as wooded as the Catalinas near Tucson. And they were definitely not as cool. But tantalizing traces of gold and silver had been discovered in their remote cañons and outcroppings—if one could endure the heat, the lack of water, and somehow avoid or fend off the Apaches. Mora had no doubt this part of the territory would eventually be riddled with producing mines, many of them very rich.

  The heat didn’t bother him, as long as he took a few precautions for himself and his animal. He was careful to be sure his burro wasn’t overloaded, and drank sufficient water from the two wooden kegs the animal carried. Kismet was not human company, but that wasn’t necessarily bad. He’d always possessed an instinctive rapport with animals of whatever species, and was comfortable with only the burro. It wasn’t long before he recognized Kismet’s various moods—when she was content, or hungry, or ready to break free and go wandering. She would eat nearly any kind of vegetation that wasn’t too thorny.

  As he led the docile burro up a shallow valley, he pondered her practical uses as beast of burden, a sentry who would bray loudly at the approach of animal or man, and a killer of snakes. For Mora, these traits made the burro nearly perfect as a traveling companion.

  Just as before his Sierra Madre adventure, he felt no urgency in his quest for gold. He had the rest of his life—however long that might be. Gold was only a means of subsistence. Yet he still owed Lila Strunk the money she’d given him for his grubstake. This was the only obligation he felt. He had an inkling that Lila cared for him as a possible soul mate and husband. She would doubtless make a fine wife, but he was not in the market for a wife, even if he’d been free to marry. He still had a wife in San Francisco. At least, he presumed she still lived. He’d had no word of her death, and there was always someone who’d seek you out with news like that.

  Mora pulled up to take a breather and to adjust the pack saddle. The morning sun rose higher, stoking the furnace of the sere mountains. Others found this country forbidding, but he felt at home in the folds and ridges of the rocky landscape. True, he was a stranger wandering a strange land, and would never have a true home until he laid his bones in the dust for the last time, his spirit traveling on to explore whatever lay beyond. But that didn’t concern him as he hunkered in the scant shade of his animal to swig lukewarm water from his canteen. He wondered if anyone would find and bury his remains. In this extremely dry atmosphere, it wouldn’t take many weeks before his body would look like an unwrapped, desiccated mummy, similar to the Apache he’d seen hanging from the cross along the Gila Road. He was saved from further morbid thoughts when a tiny lizard paused, looked quizzically at him before darting into the shade of a mesquite.

  He chuckled, then stood and poured water into his new felt hat. He offered a drink to Kismet who drank greedily. “Atta girl.” He rubbed her nose and long ears as she nuzzled his pockets for a possible treat.

  In spite of his contentment, a tiny uneasy feeling tugged at his innards. He paid little attention to it, not being so naïve as to think he would ever find perfect happiness in this life. There were always mice in the corncrib, flies on the apple pie, cholera morbis in the belly, or a shrewish wife to find fault.

  Most men and women were more sociable than he, and couldn’t stand the silence of the recluse. He had no such attachments to others of his kind. A little human company went a long way. He’d discovered the hard way that he couldn’t put trust in people. He supposed he had faults that irritated others, but now they didn’t have to put up with him, either.

  Until his water ran low, he prospected for several days in both the Chocolate Mountains and the Castle Dome district to the east, picking up float, chipping off promising rock samples, numbering small rocks he dropped into a canvas bag, and penciling their numbers and approximate locations into a notebook.

  One clear morning before dawn, he and Kismet started toward the village of Castle Dome Landing, on the Colorado, to replenish water and supplies and to visit the assayer. Guiding himself by the sun and stars, Mora made his crooked way through the desert and low mountains. Twice he spotted evidence of claims being worked. In each instance, he stopped some distance away to observe through his field glasses. At the first, no one was around, but a shaft was surmounted by a windlass and hoist, with a pile of spoil to one side. A small operation that had not proved up, or the miners had been run off or killed by
Indians, he guessed. The following day, about sunset, he spied a new-looking head frame overtop another shaft. He stopped on a hill upwind to keep Kismet from braying at the smell of the mules that plodded around the primitive arrastre, crushing ore. This larger operation had the appearance of something more profitable. Through the twin lenses of his field glasses, he saw three men moving around. Mora wondered if they were mining gold or silver or copper. He didn’t plan to go down and inquire. He was irritated that mines and miners were becoming more numerous in the Castle Dome district. The remote mountains, it seemed, were filling up. Before long, the sound of steam engines and the thunderous pounding of stamp mills would be fouling the silence, echoing off the ancient boulders and rock walls. Then he smiled to himself. No, that wouldn’t happen unless a source of water were discovered. The crushed ore would still have to be hauled by wagon or mule back to the river.

  The next morning, Mora was startled awake by Kismet’s loud braying. He sprang up and silenced her, then kicked dirt on the remaining coals of his campfire. He wanted no part of whatever had alerted her. He quickly strapped on her pack saddle, slipped off the hobbles, and took up his rifle and lead rope, cat-footing down the cañon while a rosy dawn lighted the eastern horizon. A few minutes later a chill crawled up his back. He clamped a hand over Kismet’s nose and watched as a half dozen Indians rode in loose single file against the skyline, heading east, over a ridge and out of his sight. If they’d heard his burro, they ignored the sound, intent on some destination of their own. Possibly they attributed the noise to one of the wild burros that roamed these hills.

  By sunset that evening, he was watering his burro among the rushes in a backwater of the Colorado. He’d left ore samples with the assayer, who’d promised to have the results the next morning. Mora hoped there was enough gold in the samples to pay the assayer, with a little left over. He was out of cash. This lack of funds killed his temptation to go to the saloon for a couple of beers. That would have to wait. For now, he filled his water kegs and canteens, bathed and washed his clothing in the water among the thick rushes, then dried off by a campfire a half mile outside Castle Dome Landing.

  Content with the company of his burro, Mora went to bed after a supper of jerked beef and water, as happy as he’d ever been.

  “These specimens don’t have enough of anything to bother with,” the bearded assayer said, nudging the rock samples aside with calloused, blackened fingers. He glanced at Mora over his glasses. “Now, these show maybe . . . forty dollars of gold to the ton, with some traces of copper and silver.”

  “Three ounces of pure metal in two thousand pounds of rock.” Mora grinned ruefully at the absurdity. “Reckon I’ll have to train my eyes a little better.” He took a deep breath, the scorched smell of the assayer’s fire burning his nostrils.

  The assayer grunted his assent. “These last two, on the other hand, show more promise than I’ve seen in some time. He held them to the sunlight by the window. “See those threads of gold veining the quartz? It goes at least two thousand to the ton. The other one is even richer . . . maybe three thousand.”

  Mora’s heart leaped and he did some quick mental calculations. An average of ten or eleven pounds of pure gold to each ton of rock. He knew this was only a small sample. The gold it contained could very likely dwindle off to nothing a few inches either side of where he’d broken off the specimen.

  “Definitely worth pursuing,” the assayer said, handing over the two samples. He was strictly business, showing no more emotion than a man who earned his keep tasting whiskey at a distillery.

  “Keep one of these for your work,” Mora said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Is the other one rich enough to pay for a few supplies?”

  The assayer nodded. “Sure is, if Harkness over at the General Store still accepts gold ore in place of specie. He’ll have to have it smelted to extract the exact weight and value.” The assayer smiled for the first time. “I’d sure as hell take it. But the most valuable thing you have here is the knowledge of where it came from.”

  Mora forced a smile as he shoved the ore sample into his pants pocket. He’d have to consult his notebook, but even then his notations were rather vague, since distinguishable landmarks were lacking. Most of those cañons and ridges looked much alike.

  At the General Store he bought dried beans, cornmeal, bacon, salve for Kismet’s back, jerked beef, canned tomatoes, and matches. The clerk apparently had been told to accept likely looking ore or nuggets, and the young man seemed unusually curious, trying to find out where the ore had come from. But Mora was uncommunicative, and departed shortly, leading Kismet away from the small town, away from the river and back toward the mountains. He kept a sharp eye on his back trail in case anyone had decided to follow him. The only thing bad about finding gold was that it was worthless unless traded for something—traded to other men who could be wily, greedy, even murderous.

  He made camp early that evening, then rose before dawn next day to lead his burro on a circuitous route, doubling back on himself, crossing slabs of solid rock where the only track he could leave might be a scratch from an iron horseshoe. For two more days, he kept up his twisting, turning course to discourage or confuse any would-be followers. He was probably paranoid, but better safe than dead, he reasoned. He needed to take care to avoid becoming as addled by fear and the sun as other solitary prospectors he’d heard about.

  Finally he reached the area of the Castle Dome Mountains where he thought he’d collected the rich samples. Footsore and weary, he made camp on a level ledge of rock commanding a view to the south and west. He collected enough dead wood and brush to build a fire and let it burn down to coals before sunset so no flame could be seen after dark. He filled a small pot with frijoles and buried them in the embers of the campfire, then sat down to smoke his pipe and enjoy the last, lingering rays of the summer sun as the world turned away toward night. A perfect silence rang in his ears; it was hard to realize he was seated on a planet spinning several thousand miles an hour.

  A light breeze sprang up to stir the sluggish air, while the rocks around him still gave off the heat of the sun’s baking. Dusk slid away to darkness. Before moonrise, the night sky was clear and sparkling with myriad stars and planets, none of which he could name beyond the North Star and the Big Dipper. He pondered incomprehensible infinity. Being too absorbed in the here and now, he’d never thought much about the vast realm of outer space. Letting his gaze wander over the millions of tiny points of light, he sank into the immeasurable distance—and felt like a tiny grain of sand on the earth. At least studying the night sky put the puny activities of man in perspective. Mora could understand how many primitive tribes, faced with the awesome grandeur of the heavenly planets, worshipped these bodies as all-powerful and life-giving forces.

  The moon began to rise, silvering the landscape. In the silence of his mind, Mora could hear the beginning notes of the “Moonlight” Sonata, the lovely piece he’d been privileged to enjoy more than once in a San Francisco concert hall. Yet even the beauty of this Beethoven composition was hardly as impressive as the real thing.

  He inhaled the fresh fragrance of the desert vegetation. At this moment, the wealthiest man in America possessed no more than he. He prayed for a stronger faith in God, for complete confidence in the personal Supreme Being who cared about Daniel Mora and all the rest of creation. Even though he’d bumbled into a few box cañons along the way, he was reasonably satisfied most of his major decisions had been correct. The faint unease that troubled him might only be a longing for the perfect happiness of heaven.

  This reflection was the closest he’d come to consciously praying in weeks, he thought as he removed the lid from the beans, smelled the delicious aroma, and prepared to eat.

  The sun was nearly overhead the next day when he paused to drink from his canteen. He’d resolved to take shelter during the hottest hours, but was close to relocating the place where he’d taken the rich samples and didn’t want t
o stop until he found it.

  He watered Kismet, then, using his shirt tail, wiped the dust from the lenses of his green-tinted glasses. Looking backward and forward along the narrow cañon, he strove to orient himself. He no longer had the two samples to compare with the rock outcroppings, but his memory for land forms and details stood him in good stead. He ruffled the pages of his small notebook and read that a steep, rocky ridge jutted up on the west side of the cañon, while a spire of rock was visible 100 yards farther to the north. This had to be the place. He tethered Kismet to a rock in the shade of an overhanging ledge. The windless air was stifling in the narrow defile as he began his climb up to the left. The sun was like a heavy blanket pressing down on him, making every labored step more of an effort.

  After climbing twenty feet, he paused to catch his breath and look for handholds and footholds in the broken rock ledges farther up. The rock burned his callused hands even through the worn leather gloves. He tilted his head back and the sun smote his face beneath the hat brim. Just another dozen feet or so. That’s where he’d taken the samples; he was almost certain of it. He started his climb once more.

  Finally reaching the level ledge, he found the sharp edge of fractured rock where scratches from his hammer were still visible. Peering closely at the outcropping, he worked his way along, noting only one more tiny trace of gold. If he didn’t see anything more promising than this in the amber-colored rock, he’d knock off and hunker down somewhere until later when he’d come back and try again. Perhaps sunlight at a lower angle would reveal something.

  He went to his hands and knees and looked closely where a seam of stained rock and quartz seemed to mingle. Then he felt a tiny whiff of cool air, and jerked back, startled. He yanked off a glove and put his hand to the crack. The air was cooler, as if emanating from a cave. The crack was where several rocks had slid down to block an opening in the seamed and weathered face of the mountain. He pulled at the smaller rocks and they fell away, crashing down below him in a cloud of dust. He forced aside two more pan-size slabs until he had an opening large enough to crawl into. The cool air felt wonderful on his face as he went to his hands and knees and worked his way inside, praying there were no reptiles lying in the sheltered darkness. Ten feet from the entrance, he was able to stand up. He paused until his eyes adjusted to the gloom. Light was not only coming from the entrance he’d uncovered, but also from a ray of noon sun slanting down through a crack twenty feet above. It shone on a mossy wall of rock where a tiny trickle glistened.