You might not think a bunch of cob-rough old brush-poppers from the Arizona hinterlands would know about such grub, but places like Yuma and Tucson had their fair share of sophistication, railed in on refrigerator cars via the Southern Pacific. I’d had caviar and raw oysters, and even lobster one Christmas dinner, although I’d avoided champagne on account of its high cost—ten bucks for a bottle at Frank Burgess’ New York Dining Club, in Tucson.
“That smart mouth of yours is gonna earn you another lump upside your head if you ain’t careful,” Buchman warned.
I went over to where I’d left my own rig and settled down. I was tired, but the more I tried to relax, the more I seemed to hurt. The beatings I’d taken from both Tiny Evans and Felix Perez had exacted their toll, my wrists were chafed, and my ankle throbbed where I’d gouged it with the muzzle of Selma’s semi-auto during my tussle with Felix. In fact, my ankle was giving me quite a bit of trouble that day, primarily because of my saddle. The .380 had ridden comfortably under Selma’s black garter all the way from Yuma, but it was different on horseback, where the stirrup kept pressing the Colt’s steel frame into the bone. I was going to have to come up with another way of carrying it soon, or risk giving away its location by limping.
I dozed fitfully, then came awake when Davenport’s group hauled up in front of the mine. Pushing to my feet, I walked outside to greet them. Spence and the boys didn’t look too bad, but I wanted to laugh when I saw the old man, red-faced and pouring sweat, his eyelids drooping like worn-out blinds. Licking at lips already starting to chap, he croaked, “Where’s Buchman?”
“He’s inside getting his rest,” I replied. “I’d say you ought to do the same.”
He glanced doubtfully past my shoulder. “In there?”
“It’s safe, and there’s water for the stock, although not much to spare. We’ll squat here until things cool off, then push on through the early evening.” I took the reins of Davenport’s chestnut and told him to get down. “It’s cool inside. You’d better get in out of this sun until you get used to it.”
My words ruffled the older man. “I’ve been working this territory since before you were born, Latham. I don’t need you or anyone else telling me how to survive in it.” Then he headed unsteadily toward the adit.
Luis was grinning as he swung down from his saddle mule. “That old man’s still got plenty of piss and vinegar, eh?”
“He’s lucky he didn’t fall over when he dismounted.”
“Sí, but he would have gotten right back up, and punched you in the nose if you tried to help him.”
“You sound like you admire him.”
“No, maybe a little. He’s a tough nut, but I think I’d trust Felix before I would Davenport.”
I laughed at that, but I’d soon learn—we’d all soon learn—that Luis was more right than any of us could have imagined. You can think what you want about the stories that drifted up out of Sonora in the years that followed, but I was there. I know why it all blew up in our faces.
Session Seven
The sun was low in the west when the Perez boys and Luis and I left the cool adit with our horses and mules in tow. It was still hot, but not as ravaging as earlier. It would get worse the longer we stayed in Sonora. Jorge Archuleta used to have a thermometer hanging on the north wall of his cantina, where the sun never reached, and it would sometimes top out at one hundred and twenty degrees through the hottest part of the summer. I didn’t doubt that the actual temperature went higher, but one hundred and twenty was the maximum that instrument would register.
We took the animals out to graze, and once we had them hobbled on some good spring grass growing below the mine’s entrance, I went back inside to pry the others from their slumber. Del looked aggravated that he’d been found sleeping while I wandered loose, but he didn’t say anything. Spence didn’t have much to say, either. He rose groggily, stretched and yawned, then went outside to check on the stock. Davenport told me to get the hell away or he’d have me shot.
Gritting my teeth, I went outside to where Spence was standing near the mine’s entrance overlooking the grazing remuda, smoking a newly rolled cigarette. He just shrugged when he saw my anger.
“The old man pays well, but he’ll make ye earn ye money, sometimes just in aggravation alone.”
“If he wants his wife and kids back, he’s going to have to put more effort into the task. Either that or go back to Moralos and let us handle the job.”
“He’ll no do that, lad. Davenport’s got a heap of money tied up in those ’tater-diggers and all that ammunition. He’ll no be lettin’ any of it out of his sight until we reach Sabana.”
Making a comment not fit for public record, I went to inform Luis and the Perezes of the delay. I think the muleteers could tell from my expression that we wouldn’t be pulling out any time soon.
“It’s just as well,” Luis replied, after I’d explained the situation to him. “The stock could use some time to graze.”
He was right about that. There wasn’t going to be much water or grass over the next couple of days. I just hoped the delay—a few hours here and a few hours there could add up quickly—didn’t end up costing Abby Davenport or one of her kids some flesh. A lot of people don’t realize how violent those days were, or how little life was valued.
While Luis and the others stayed with the mules, I climbed the hill above the mine to have a look around. That was a rugged country out there, and it was going to get even more rugged the farther south we traveled—I was going to see to that for my own selfish reasons, which I’ll explain later.
The sun went down while I sat up there studying the country and enjoying the solitude. Although I didn’t see any signs of intruders, I couldn’t help wondering what might be standing in our way, waiting for us out there beyond the horizon. Not just Yaquis and bandits, either. There was a lot of unrest in that part of Mexico in the years leading up to the big revolution, a lot of factions vying for power and wealth. It was a volatile land, and a dangerous one for gringos.
While waiting for Davenport to leave his lair, I pulled off my vest and slit a gap in the lining under my left arm. I made it just big enough to hold the Colt Selma had given me, then bound both ends of the cut with thread from the little sewing kit I’d picked up in Yuma. When I was finished, I had myself a passable hideout rig for the pistol, with just enough of a gap in the lining to slip my hand inside and grab the gun if I needed it—which I figured, sooner or later, I would.
The light was dimming rapidly when Davenport finally emerged from the mine, reminding me of a hibernating bear in both appearance and manner. Del and Spence came with him, looking rather sheepish for their tardiness. They understood the odds we were up against, even if their boss didn’t appear to. Or want to.
Felix had kindled a small fire while we waited for the old man to finish his nap, and the scent of coffee caught Davenport’s attention. He lifted his nose and sniffed, furthering the image of an awakening bruin. “What’s for supper?” he asked briskly, striding over to the fire. “I’m famished.”
“We’ve got tortillas we brought with us from Moralos,” I said, coming up on the opposite side of the flames. “We can wrap them around some beans and eat in the saddle.”
“Nonsense,” Davenport replied. “We need nourishment.”
“We’re still four long days from Sabana, Mister Davenport, and that’s only if we don’t run into trouble between here and there. We’re already cutting it pretty close for your family. We can’t afford to waste time.”
Davenport hesitated, annoyance flickering deep in his eyes. “Some coffee, then. Surely we have time for that.”
“If it was me, I wouldn’t,” I replied.
“But it isn’t you, is it?” he said coolly, then reached across the fire to where Felix was holding out a freshly poured cup.
Way down deep, I could feel my anger bubbling softly
, like nitro being brought to a slow boil, and I made some pretty wild promises to myself of the things I’d do if Abby Davenport or her kids were hurt in any way. Grinning, Felix held the coffee pot toward me as if asking if I wanted some, but I knew he was just taunting me. Davenport didn’t say anything, but I thought he seemed amused by my refusal.
It was well into the gloaming when Davenport finally tossed the dredges from his cup and ordered Felix to kill the fire. Walking over to where I was standing beside my bay, hanging on to the mare’s lead rope while she pulled hungrily on the green grass, he broached the subject of moving on after dark.
“A bit dangerous, don’t you think?” he inquired.
“A lot easier on men and animals than riding during the hottest part of the day.”
He hesitated as if considering my reply. I could tell he wasn’t keen on leaving with darkness closing in. “What would happen if we got an early start in the morning, took a break at midday, then rode a little farther when it cooled off in the afternoon?”
For a second I just stared, wondering if he was pulling my leg. Then I said, “You mean like today?”
Davenport’s face flushed dark. “Yes, but with an earlier start in the afternoon.”
“I’d rather we pushed on now. We won’t have a mine to sit out the heat tomorrow, but we can likely find some mesquite to hole up under. It’ll still feel like we’re squatting in Satan’s skillet, but it can be done.” After a pause, I added, “It has to be done if you want to rescue your wife and kids.”
Davenport was silent a moment, contemplating not so much my advice, but how he wanted to take it. Buchman wasn’t having that problem. I could see him behind the old man, glaring at me like he wanted to slit my throat. He didn’t like it that Ed Davenport was turning to me for advice. Del had been the top dog for a while, but, with my knowledge of the terrain ahead of us, I was slowly usurping that position.
Finally Davenport loudly declared, “We’ll ride on until midnight, then stop for a few hours. You take the lead, Latham, and I’ll expect us to make good time in the coming hours.”
I didn’t waste my breath with a comeback. Calling for the others to mount up, I swung a leg over the cantle of my saddle and reined out of the way. When we were ready, I headed back down the road the way we’d come until I came to a trail that wound back to the west for maybe a quarter of a mile before turning south, taking us deeper into the rugged landscape below Moralos.
The others stretched out single file behind me, Davenport next in line, then Del, followed by Luis and the Perez boys—each handling a single pack mule—then Spence bringing up the rear with a rifle across his saddle, making sure no one fell out of line or lagged behind. I kept the column moving steadily along its serpentine course, staying off the ridges as much as possible and following sandy washes when I could. I was keeping time with the moon, but Davenport was using a gold-plated pocket watch that he must have been consulting regularly, because it wasn’t much past midnight by my calculations when he called a halt. Riding up beside me, he said, “Let’s find a place to camp for the rest of the night. The men need a rest.”
That was bullshit, of course. We were all doing fine, and Davenport wouldn’t have given a hoot if we weren’t. But he was the boss, and if he wanted to stop, there wasn’t much I could do about it. Jutting my chin toward a V-shaped gap in a low ridge ahead of us, I said, “If I remember right, there’s some chaparral over yonder where we might find some wood for a breakfast fire and grass for the stock.”
It would also cover a few more miles before we stopped for the night, but Davenport had other ideas.
“What about that place over there?”
I glanced in the direction he indicated, a flat piece of ground a few hundred yards to the north, tucked up against a tall cutbank that would afford us a wall to put our backs to and shelter for a fire—assuming we could scrounge up enough fuel to kindle one.
“It’s the wrong direction,” I pointed out.
With a look of growing impatience, he said, “I hardly think a couple of hundred yards will make that much of a difference.” Pulling his horse around, he gave it a swift jab with his spurs, breaking into a canter toward the cutbank.
“I hope you aren’t regretting that decision in a few days,” I said to his retreating form.
We spent the rest of that night tucked up against the cutbank, but still didn’t get the early start Davenport had promised.
“We can’t pack adequately in the dark,” the old man argued when I went to awaken him.
“Mister Davenport, these boys could pack a mule blindfolded, and not lose a can opener,” I said.
“Nonsense,” the old man retorted, rolling onto his side and pulling a Navajo blanket over his shoulder. “No man is that good, Latham. Wake me when it’s light.”
Swearing under my breath, I walked over to where the muleteers were waiting and told them to get started. “I want those sawbucks cinched tight before first light. We can wait until dawn to load the guns and ammunition if that’s what the old man wants, but I want everything ready when it’s time to move out.”
True to his word, Davenport refused to abandon his blankets until the first hint of gray light was spilling over the lip of the cutbank. Sitting up with a wince and a hacking snort, he stretched painfully, then reached for his boots. I motioned for the muleteers to start packing, but damned if the old man didn’t insist on a hot breakfast before we pulled out.
“I’ve had enough of refried beans and tough meat wrapped in tortillas,” he stated. “I want some eggs and sausage and fresh coffee, instead of the watered-down brew I was forced to drink last night.”
Tight-jawed, I said, “We don’t have time for breakfast, Mister Davenport, and we don’t have any eggs or sausage to fix if we did.”
Davenport paused with one foot booted and laced, the other still in its sock. Turning an accusatory eye on Del, he said, “You were told to pack adequately for our journey, Buchman. Aren’t you familiar with the term ‘adequate’?”
Del looked up from where he was squatting beside the skimpy blaze of our morning fire. “Yeah, I know what ‘adequate’ means, especially with the limited number of pack animals we’ve got. It means no heavy cast-iron skillets. It means no fragile foods, or anything that might spoil along the trail. What we’ve got is some jerky and hardtack, a few tins of sardines, some flour for ash cakes, salt, a smoked ham, and a little coffee … plus whatever tortillas and beans we’ve got left from Moralos. If we eat light and keep moving, like Latham wants, it’ll be enough to get us where we’re going. We’ll have to figure out something else for our return.”
Davenport’s scowl deepened as Del ticked off the paltry amount of supplies we’d brought along. “You expect to feed an expedition of seven men on jerky and canned fish?”
“We didn’t have enough stock to bring along extra grub,” Del reminded him. “As it is, we’ve got Luis Vega riding a mule that was supposed to be carrying our basic supplies.”
Davenport glowered toward Felix Perez, fiddling with the knots on a crate of Krag ammunition lashed to his mule’s sawbuck. “That damned greaser wasted five days in Nogales, then came slinking back without mules or the two hundred dollars I gave him to make the purchases. He claims he was robbed, but I’d wager it was some tinhorn gambler in a poker game that did the stealing. That little thief will pay as soon as my need for him is over.”
He turned to me. “Very well, then, Latham, we’ll bow to your suggestion.” Raising his voice to include the entire camp, he called, “Saddle up, everyone! We’ve got miles to cover before this damnable heat forces us to retire for the afternoon.”
And that’s pretty much how it went, all that day and the next one, too. Davenport remained as unpredictable as a Sonoran sandstorm, while Del seemed to grow more morose the deeper we penetrated into Mexico. Spence stayed mostly in the background and kept his thoughts to hims
elf, while the muleteers—Mexican and Indio alike—became almost a separate entity, rarely included in any conversation, their opinions never sought. Of the four gringos within the party, only Spence and I spoke to the packers on a regular basis.
The land leveled out during the afternoon of our second day on the trail. Not flat, but more gently rolling, yet still hot and dry and furry with cacti. We made better time for a while, but I knew it wouldn’t last. The roughest country lay before us, a maze of rugged cañons and rocky, sun-blasted ridges. Although we didn’t see any signs of civilization, I knew there were villages and small ranches scattered on either side of us. From time to time as we crossed the low hills I’d spot the distant, snowy crowns of the Sierra Madres far to the east, like clouds riding low on the horizon.
Toward evening we passed a small herd of cattle, grazing by itself, though recently branded. They were mostly those small, black Spanish demons, with the needle-tipped horns that could gut a horse or rip a vaquero’s leg half off with a quick swipe of its head. If I hadn’t wanted to slip through quietly, I might have been tempted to shoot a calf for meat, but the last thing we needed was some grandee’s fired-up cowboys coming after us with guns and nooses.
Early on the third day we entered the region I’d been warning the others about ever since we left Moralos, a land of sheer-sided barrancas winding between jagged, stony peaks, the sun’s heat settling down in those windless cañons like a blacksmith’s forge gone berserk. And it was here that I decided to finally get shuck of those damned cuffs that I’d been wearing for so long.
I thought it might be Davenport who called me out, but instead it was Del. We were making our way along a steep slope between a tall cliff on one side and a deep drop on the other, winding through patches of prickly pear and yucca, when he bellowed for me to haul up. I did as instructed, pushing my hat back to wipe some of the sweat from my brow. We hadn’t stopped at noon because we couldn’t find a place with enough grass for the stock or shade for the rest of us, and we were all fairly parched.
Leaving Yuma Page 10