The Blaze of Noon

by Tim Champlin

  “Water! By God!” He moved toward it when his desert moccasins scuffed against something that rattled across the floor. He jumped aside with a thrill of fear, his heart pounding. He’d kicked a skeleton; a mummified skull grinned at him in the shaft of overhead light. He swallowed his heart that had jumped into his throat, then bent to examine the grisly discovery. There was not one body, but two. Both had been mummified by the dry heat, brown skin stretching over skulls that retained a fringe of hair, eye sockets filled with the dust of decay, tips of noses gone, teeth showing in macabre grins through gaps where the lips had vanished. Withered, skeletal hands were covered with parchment-like skin, as were bony feet still clutched in dry sandals, their leather straps scarred by the gnawing of rats. The crowns of both skulls were broken.

  But what filled him with wonder was the sight of their clothing. Each body wore a hooded brown robe and a rope waist cinch—the dress of Franciscan friars.

  Mora knelt and listened to the silence of centuries. How long had these men lain here undisturbed? They both showed signs of violent death. They might have died five years ago, or fifty, or 150. There was no way he could tell. The buckles on the sandals were of an unfamiliar design, and the coarse cloth looked to be hand woven. But what were they doing here? Had they crawled into this cleft to escape wild animals, or the heat, or a flash flood, or the Indians? Had they been killed by a cave-in? There were no rocks of any size lying about that would account for the crushed skulls.

  When he’d calmed down, he rose and proceeded to examine the rest of the small cave. The shaft of sunlight picked out something near the floor. He stooped to look—and caught his breath. There, imbedded in the base of the wall, was coarse sponge gold, entwined and laced through white quartz rock. The gold was nearly pure, and there was a lot of it. From the looks of the marks, some of it had been hacked away. Was this what the priests had been after? No telling how far the two-foot wide vein extended into the rock. But there was enough within sight to make him a wealthy man. His heart pounded with the thrill of it.

  He rocked back on his heels and studied the softly gleaming metal. The enormity of his discovery gradually settled on him—and with it settled the weight of a ponderous depression.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Daniel Mora wasn’t aware how long he hunkered, mesmerized, before the golden treasure. Time ceased and he seemed suspended in some eerily lighted shrine where the riches of the world lay before him for the taking. Possibilities, implications, and problems whirled through his mind faster than he could focus on them.

  His trance was finally broken when the sunlight slid away from the dull gleam in the white quartz. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, then rose and moved from the wall. His gaze fell on the withered, brown-robed sentinels of the treasure. How ironic that these Franciscans, who’d taken a vow of poverty, would have ended their days beside all this worldly wealth—if, in fact, they were actually killed here. He had no doubt they’d been murdered, their deaths somehow connected to this gold. He also suspected their killers had long since turned to dust as well.

  His mind began to function clearly once more. He took the small hammer from his belt and, with a few deft strokes, knocked off several chips of rotten quartz, surprised at how soft the pure gold was. The earth yielded up her riches without a struggle, but this ready access made Mora nervous. It shouldn’t be this easy. That was not in the nature of things. Something was amiss. It was like struggling to push open a heavy door, only to have it unexpectedly fly open, causing him to fall inside.

  He pulled an empty rawhide bag from under his belt and began to fill it with samples. Yet these were not really ore samples. They were about half to two-thirds pure gold intertwined with some white quartz. He whistled softly at its richness.

  Twice he thought he heard a noise outside and paused to listen, holding his breath. Once he even put the bag down and crawled carefully back through the narrow entrance, slipped on his green glasses, and looked around. Nothing. Everything was hot and still. The small desert animals and birds had all gone to their burrows or nests to shelter from the blasting early afternoon sun. From the ledge he could see Kismet, her tail swishing at flies as the patient burrow awaited his return in the shade of the narrow cañon below. Mora crawled back inside, his heart thumping. He was perspiring, even in the slightly cooler, musty atmosphere. The gold was already working on his nerves. He’d left his carbine on the pack saddle, never anticipating having to defend himself. He wished he had a small pistol that would be easy to carry. Anyone could easily slip up, unseen, from the outside and trap him in this cleft—a cleft that was almost a cave formed by the tilting of giant slabs of rock.

  Pulling the drawstring tight, he hefted the rawhide bag and was amazed at its weight. He tied it to his belt, then went to examine the moisture on the nearby rock. It was only a tiny seepage that had aided the formation of moss. It was water, all right, but not enough to get a decent drink if a man stood here for a week and sponged off every drop.

  Needing fresh air, he turned toward the entrance. Even if it was hotter outside, claustrophobia had begun to claw at his throat. This golden tomb seemed to be suffocating him.

  Suddenly he remembered he had to stake a claim, if this was to be his. Although the vein showed evidence of having been worked, it might have been done by Indians or early missionaries. To hold a claim that had been staked and filed on, the law required that a miner do some minimal assessment work. It was evident no activity had taken place here in many years, probably even decades. He collected and formed a pile of the small rocks that littered the floor and took out his notebook and pencil. Standing in the narrow beam of overhead light, he wrote his name and the date and the statement that he, Daniel Mora, was claiming all the gold within this cave as his, along with all the gold the exposed vein might contain. Claiming the entire vein, no matter where it might lead was probably not strictly legal, but it would have to do until he got to the recorder’s office to file. In most alluvial claims on creeks and rivers, there was a limit on the number of feet a claim could extend along the waterway, as well as from rimrock to rimrock on either side. Dating and signing the page, he tore it from his notebook and tucked it under the top rock in the pyramid-shaped pile.

  What about these two bodies? Should he bury them in the sand outside? If they were found here, along with his name, someone might accuse him of murder. He pondered the situation and decided to leave the two dead priests where they were. If anyone else wandered in here, maybe the sight would distract them so they wouldn’t see the gold vein. And it wouldn’t hurt to disguise the vein.

  He crawled back outside, slipping and sliding down to the floor of the narrow cañon, and retrieved his shovel from the burro. He dug up two small mesquite bushes, along with some dirt around their bases, then laboriously climbed back up to the ledge, spilling some of the dirt from the shovel into his own face. He made his way inside the cleft. The dirt he mixed with what little moisture and moss he could get from the seepage in the wall, then smeared the resulting mud on the exposed gold and white quartz. The mesquite he placed at the base of the wall in front of the gold, then stepped back to review his handiwork. Even in the better light of a lantern, the vein would not be noticeable, unless one were looking for it.

  Wearing his work gloves, he returned the displaced skull to the body of the mummy, then, using a small branch of the mesquite, brushed out his tracks and scuff marks in the dust as he crawled backward out the low entrance. He’d left no tracks on the ledge or the jumbled scree. He wrestled a rock over the opening he’d uncovered. An expert tracker might be able to tell someone had climbed up and down here, but he felt relatively secure no one would come looking.

  He returned to Kismet, uncorked one of the small water kegs, and poured his hat full for her to drink. Then replacing the cool, wet hat, he drank from his canteen.

  “Well, gal, you and I are rich,” he said quietly, rubbing her velvety nose. She nuzzled his hand. “Nothing for you just now, but I’ve got
enough in this sack to buy anything you want.” Her soft brown eyes showed not a trace of avarice, and he laughed aloud. “I used to think I was as immune to money as you are, but now I’m not so sure.” He grew solemn, listening to the midday stillness and wondering at his own reaction to the find. “I’ll let you carry this.” He removed the heavy rawhide sack from his belt and tied it out of sight under the blankets on the burro’s pack saddle.

  He took the rope and led the burro out into the fierce sun, intent on finding a place to shelter for the next three or four hours. Two miles away, he pulled off the pack saddle in the shade of a palo verde, unrolled his blanket on the ground, and stretched out. He tied the burro on a long lead, still unsure if she might take it into her head to go wandering. And he couldn’t afford to lose her. He lay down to rest, but placed the Marlin beside him in an unusual gesture of self-defense.

  By the time shadows were growing long, Mora had resaddled Kismet and was leading her toward the retreating sun. His first order of business was to settle his debt to Lila Strunk. Along the way, he would stop in Yuma and record his claim. How could he do this without calling attention to his find, and either starting a stampede or putting himself in danger? He would figure that out as he went along. In the two years he’d been a lone prospector, he’d never found anything rich enough to file on. His had been merely a subsistence existence, picking up promising-looking float here and there, chipping off rock samples that contained enough gold to trade for a few supplies. Should he hire the smelter at Castle Dome Landing to reduce his gold to one small ingot of pure metal? No. That would be costly. The smelter was set up to deal with large amounts of ore that were already being brought down by mule train from the commercial mines in the region. Gold as pure as his samples would surely bring comment. Word would leak out, and he would be followed, questioned, maybe even threatened to reveal the location of the ore. Blessings of any kind did not come in unadulterated form, he realized. He’d just use his knife point to dig out a few small nuggets from the quartz to trade for stage fare, food, and a livery stable bill for Kismet while he returned to Sand Tank station.

  The thought of seeing Lila again after less than three weeks gladdened his heart. Perhaps he wasn’t the natural-born hermit he’d imagined. But Lila was different. She was easy to talk to, relaxing to be around. What made her so appealing? She’d evidently been pretty in her youth, but could hardly be considered so now. She hadn’t become embittered by hardship. On the contrary, she still had an easy laugh, along with a level head and common sense. After some thought, he finally focused on the quality that set her apart from other women, and most men, he’d known—she was not judgmental. In the case of her Mexican hostler, Rivera, she’d been forced to judge. She’d hired him out of desperation, but feared him and fired him as soon as Quanto came on the scene to fill the job. Mora had seen no evidence she tried to change others into what she thought they should be. Regardless of what private thoughts she entertained, she came across as a woman who accepted others at face value, never ascribing ulterior motives to their actions.

  He imagined what she would say, how she would react when he poured out the gold in front of her, repaying her generosity and trust many times over for the grubstake she’d provided from her own meager savings. He smiled at the thought of her surprise and wonder, at her joy over his good fortune.

  That night, sitting cross-legged by his campfire, he held chunks of the rich ore and gouged out tiny pieces of gold onto his blanket—pieces small enough they weren’t likely to draw any undue curiosity. These might be tiny flakes and nuggets any desert rat could have raked up from a gravelly arroyo.

  The heat was so intense, Mora took a leisurely two more days to reach Castle Dome Landing. He remained grubby and dusty and unshaven to divert suspicion from any observer that he might have more than 10¢ and a chew of Wedding Cake plug in his pockets.

  Fortunately the stage company had run a branch line north from Yuma, so he wouldn’t have to walk any farther. He bought a round trip ticket to Sand Tank station at the stage office while pretending to hoard the tiny nuggets he used to pay for it.

  Then he led Kismet to the town’s lone livery. “Put ’er up with good feed and a rub-down. Keep her exercised. I’ll be gone about ten days to two weeks. I’ll stow my pack saddle and gear in your tack room.”

  “Right.” The barrel-bellied liveryman gave him a slight smirk that said as loudly as words: “If you don’t show up again, or can’t pay, I’ll have me a good animal here.”

  Mora fished out three small nuggets, estimated their weight in his hand at two ounces, and dropped them into the merchant’s outstretched palm.

  “Yes, sir! Anything else, sir?” The fat man’s eyes bugged and he became subservient at once.

  Mora stroked the burro’s neck in farewell and went off quickly to board the stage that was leaving in a half hour. Perhaps it wasn’t healthy to become so attached to animals, but Kismet was his constant, and only, companion. He’d come to value and depend on her company. It had been that way with Atlas, his first burro. They each had different personalities, but he never had to be on his guard around a burro as he did around humans. A burro was more predictable. He’d miss her.

  Early that morning, Mora had taken pains to wrap the rawhide ore sack inside his blanket and ground cover, lacing the roll securely at both ends. The rolled bundle he carried like a grip by way of a rope handle. In spite of the driver’s instructions to stow it, along with his rifle, in the boot, he kept both inside the coach. For one thing, he didn’t want anyone to notice how heavy the roll was for its size. He hated that such precautions were necessary, but regretted even more that he now looked on every stranger with suspicion. The gold was definitely having its affect on him, and he’d acquired it only three days before.

  The four men who were to share the stage on its thirty-mile run to Yuma introduced themselves as soon as they all boarded.

  Mora had offered his hand to each of the other three, saying: “Daniel Mora, prospector.”

  A young second lieutenant, named Jim Briscoe, was traveling from his upriver post at Ehrenberg to Fort Yuma.

  “Ned Weems. I sell the finest liquors made,” a short, rotund man said, offering his sweaty palm.

  “P.J. Edwards,” the last man said, settling into his seat next to Mora and removing his hat to reveal a severely balding pate. “I represent some mining interests.” He didn’t offer to shake hands.

  “Yeeehaww!” A whip cracked, and the stage jerked into motion.

  “Hope the driver can convey all that energy to those mules,” Lieutenant Briscoe said with a smile. Somehow, the officer still looked neat and fresh in his blue uniform.

  Within a quarter mile, the stage began to dip and sway and bounce, throwing them from one side to the other.

  “Gawd damn!” The red-faced whiskey drummer opposite Mora grabbed for the hanging strap as a heavy lurch flung him against the paneled side. “If that driver’s tryin’ to hit every pothole and rut ’tween here and Yuma, he’s doing a dang’ good job of it!”

  Mora, who was facing rearward, wanted to tell Weems that he should be glad he wasn’t walking, as he himself had been doing for many days. But he was long past telling others what to do or say. Besides, as he studied the man’s flushed face and the spidery tracing of tiny veins in the chubby cheeks, he felt pity for Ned Weems, out on the road trying to make a living selling whiskey, bourbon, rye, Scotch, and various other hard liquors. The drummer propped his feet on his wooden sample case and, with his free hand, yanked loose his maroon cravat. He’d already doffed his waistcoat, and the striped shirt clung to him in sweaty patches. The hot wind puffed in the open windows, carrying a fine layer of dust.

  It was almost with a sense of guilt that Mora reflected on the fortune he’d found. Although he looked grubbier than any of the other three, he was probably richer than any man in, or atop, the coach. In fact, he could probably buy this stagecoach line, with plenty left over for a mansion or two and some firs
t-class world travel. It wasn’t pride or a feeling of superiority that made him feel far removed from these men who pursued jobs and professions to earn their living; it was more a feeling of unreality. He’d probably wake up on his blanket shortly, with Kismet nearby, and realize this was only some crazy dream. Yet, he knew it wasn’t. As a child, he and his friends had sometimes played the game: “What would you do if you had a million dollars?” Then followed the wildest schemes and plans and castles in the air as each boy tried to stretch his imagination and outdo the others in spending this extravagant, imaginary fortune.

  Mora took a deep breath and looked out at the sun’s brilliant reflection skipping along the surface of the Colorado River. Now he didn’t have to pretend. He actually possessed such wealth, and, if that vein was as rich as it appeared, he was likely worth more than the million dollars they’d conjured up as children.

  Yet, he couldn’t get too excited about the find. This reality might vanish in a puff of smoke when he reached the recorder’s office and found out the rich vein already belonged to someone else. But he strongly suspected this was not the case. Someone obviously had known about the ore in the past, since the vein showed signs of having been worked. Perhaps it was Indians. But the presence of the long-dead bodies, the undisturbed dust and rat droppings all indicated this was no recent claim or a mine currently being worked.