July 6, 1878
Tumacacori Mission Ruins
Arizona Territory
Daniel Mora sensed he was being stalked by the deadliest predator in North America—the Apache warrior.
He shifted the Marlin carbine to his left hand and cat-footed from the cover of a palo verde tree across a bright patch of moonlight into the inky shadow of an adobe wall that surrounded the church graveyard. Holding his breath, he listened intently for sounds of pursuit. Nothing—only the thumping of his own heart in his ears. Not even the rustling of mesquite bushes. A westerly breeze had died at dusk, leaving a sluggish blanket of heat smothering the valley. He’d paused at the Santa Cruz River, several hundred yards away, to fill his canteen, then crept in a circuitous route to the protection of the mission wall, moving silently, pausing often, staying in the deep shadows of the desert shrubbery.
Even though he’d parceled out his stamina, he was nearly spent. Two hours before sunset, he’d crossed the unseen border from Sonora, pacing himself with a steady, ground-eating lope that ate up the miles. High desert moccasins, folded down and tied just below the knee, protected his legs and feet from catclaw, prickly pear, and cholla. Carbine in hand, a single bandoleer of ammunition across his chest, and a half-full canteen bouncing from a shoulder strap were his only possessions as he’d jogged and walked the last fifteen miles, arriving at the Santa Cruz River just at moonrise.
Over the final dozen miles his feet had been driven by fear. Just at sundown he could’ve sworn he caught a glimpse of a brown shoulder disappearing behind a sandy hillock fifty yards to his right. But he couldn’t be sure. And it was that doubt, growing with the lengthening shadows, that had spurred him on. Adrenaline pumping, lungs heaving, he’d half expected to be downed by a bullet or an arrow at every step.
He knew the Apaches, when stalking prey, could blend into the dun-colored desert landscape like a rattler or a lizard. If they wanted to remain invisible, no white man would ever catch sight of them. That’s why Mora began to doubt his eyes. If that flicker of a naked body he thought he’d seen was really a stalking Apache, the appearance had to be deliberate.
Maybe a couple of warriors had bolted the reservation, gotten liquored up on tiswin, and decided to ambush a lone white man for sport or vengeance. Sinewy, bandy-legged, and tireless, an adult Apache male in top condition could run all day without tiring. Only the legendary Tarahumaras of Mexico were better distance runners. They called themselves the Raramuris, but, by any name, they were not as warlike as the Apaches, and Mora had nothing to fear from them. In fact, a friendly Tarahumara Indian had recently nursed him back to health from a near-fatal rattlesnake bite. The man knew only a few words of English. While a grateful Mora was preparing to leave the Tarahumara’s camp in the Sierra Madre Mountains, his benefactor had uttered only two words, but those words were clear as a silver bell, dire as a crack of thunder. The lean Indian had pointed north toward the border and said: “Apache!” Then he’d swept his arms in an all-encompassing circle and said: “¡Bandidos!” The Apache devils were somewhere near the border, and the roving bands of Mexican outlaws could be expected anywhere.
Mora’s stomach growled with the sound of a night-prowling cat, and he pressed a hand to his flat belly to stifle the noise that seemed loud in his own ears. A handful of mesquite beans he’d eaten ten hours earlier could not sustain his strength much longer.
“Getting too old for this,” he muttered. He was not deluding himself. At fifty-eight, he was well past his prime. But two years alone in the desert had restored his health and vigor and given him the endurance of a man half his age. The sedentary life and strain of civilized living would have killed him by now, he rationalized, as he waited for his breathing and heart rate to slow. Then he crept along the wall until he came to a pile of rocks and adobe bricks that had tumbled down, forming a break in the eight-foot wall. Picking his steps, he climbed noiselessly over the pile and found himself in the abandoned graveyard. He barely glanced at the mounds of rocks and weathered wooden crosses, silvered by the moonlight. The tall, dry grass whispered around his legs as he strode toward the ruins of the mission church bulking up before him. He passed to the side of the unfinished, circular mortuary chapel, then disappeared through the arch of the doorway into the church nave, hoping he wasn’t being watched by a pair of hard, obsidian eyes. He was becoming paranoid. But, better paranoid than dead, he reasoned. He paused in the blackness to listen once again, but heard only the sound of his own breathing, and the scuttering of disturbed mice or possibly a kangaroo rat on the stone floor. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the shapes of the moonlit windows high in the walls on either side, and a shaft of moonlight lancing through a gap in the roof near the sanctuary. He began to feel safer. If there were any Apaches on his trail, the interior of this church would make a good defensive position. He was still uncertain whether Indians of any tribe fought at night. He fervently hoped it was against Apache belief. But hoping would not keep him alive.
He padded toward the transept and looked left and right. From previous visits, he knew the solid wooden door on his left led to the sacristy, and the gaping arched doorway to the right led out into the moonlight. Since this church was abandoned thirty years before, the wooden pews, doors, altar, pulpit, and choir loft had been appropriated for firewood or building material for other dwellings. Sixty years had passed since Mexico had won its independence from Spain and secularized the Franciscan missions. The Church had withdrawn the brown-robed priests, and the Mexican government had sold the mission lands into private hands. With the passage of time, the unfinished structure was slowly melting back into the earth from which it was formed. It would take at least another 100 years, he guessed, since only part of the building was made of adobe. The rest, including the foundation, was fashioned of stone, the walls several feet thick. The Franciscans had directed the Tohono O’odham, or Papagos, as the newcomers called them, in building a church that would last. They had brought limestone from quarries thirty miles away, heated it in limekilns, then crushed it into powder to make cement that held these massive walls together.
He turned and made his way to an alcove in the left wall near the front, taking care not to step into any of the holes left by treasure seekers. Did he dare strike a light? It was unlikely a small candle, set deep in a wall niche, could be seen by anyone outside. He placed his carbine on the floor and fumbled in his pants pocket for a block of matches he’d dipped in wax for waterproofing. Since he was afoot, the matches were the only thing, besides his rifle, bandoleer, and canteen, he’d carried away from the Indian’s camp. He broke off one of these Lucifers from the block and scratched it against the plaster inside the niche. A sulphurous smell bloomed out with the smoke as it flared up. He touched the flame to a wick in a red glass vigil light in front of a carved, wooden stature of St. Francis of Assisi. In the early 1200s, this man had founded the Order of Friars, the brown-robed Franciscans who, centuries later, succeeded the Society of Jesus—the Jesuits—in Spain’s efforts to Christianize the Indians of the New World.
All this went quickly through his mind as he dropped to his knees before the statue. He thrust a hand into his canvas pants and withdrew a small object, placing it at the base of the two-foot statue. The three-inch object was a crude replica of a human forearm. “Carved it out of a root. It was the best I could do with that belt knife,” he murmured, as if St. Francis did not understand his silent prayer of thanks. The carving was a milagro, literally, a miracle. But the word had taken on the meaning of the object as well. He was not petitioning the saint for strength of arm, but was showing gratitude for the saint’s help in curing the snakebite in his left arm, thanking him for bringing the Tarahumara Indian to him just when he might have died from the rattler’s venom. As he’d been losing consciousness on the mountain trail, Mora had uttered an urgent prayer to St. Francis. And, when he awoke, he’d found himself under a shady rock overhang and a lean Indian massaging the muscles of the arm down toward the hand. Then his rescuer had made a poultice to draw out the poison from the twin puncture wounds. He recalled the Indian giving him something bitter to drink, but remembered nothing more for many hours.
He pushed back the sleeve of his thin cotton shirt. In the flickering light of the votive candle, the wound and the surrounding tissue appeared swollen and red. But there was no fever in it, and he felt he was out of danger. Whatever the Indian had done had brought him back to health.
Mora said a quiet prayer of thanks to God and St. Francis for bringing him the unknown Indian. They’d done a superb job restoring him; no man in other than perfect health could have covered seventy miles, afoot, in the past three days, living off the desert land.
Was the use of a milagro more a superstition than a Catholic sacramental? He’d adopted the custom from his Mexican friends. Surely a carved offering in the form of the affected body part was no different than the use of incense to symbolize the rising of prayers at benediction. He glanced again at the painted wooden figure. Some unknown Spanish artist had sculpted his perception of the saint, giving him very severe features and a pointed black beard. Based on the happy friars he knew, Mora judged the founder of their order had probably been a generous, jovial man in his lifetime.
Focusing his wandering thoughts, he said the Lord’s Prayer, then rose from his knees with a groan, staggering slightly. Fatigue was draining strength from him like water pouring out of a canteen. Should he leave the candle burning? No. Tonight, darkness was his friend. Besides, the candle should be saved for the next pilgrim who happened along. He blew it out. Glancing aloft at the unseen beam ceiling, he picked up his carbine and felt his way toward the dark alcove of the baptistery and a good, safe place to sleep. Then he changed his mind. Better to be out in the main church in case he had to make a quick getaway. The moon had moved, and now, through a gap in the roof, was illuminating the concave wall behind the vanished altar. Part of a mural still showed faintly on the wall that was pockmarked with bullet holes. In spite of the damaged interior of the old church, it still gave off a sense of peace and calm.
Mora walked softly to a spot where he would have access to a side door if needed, then lay down on the floor along the base of the wall, his rifle beside him. The worn stones felt cool through his thin shirt. The thick walls and high ceiling kept the interior of the building several degrees cooler than the outside air.
What of the morrow? The first thing was to find food. Then, it was another forty or fifty miles north to the village of Tucson where he’d catch the westbound stage. But how? He had no money—not a penny. And except for his rifle and knife, which he wouldn’t part with, he had nothing to trade for stage fare, lodging, or food. His whole outfit had been lost when his loaded burro had shied at the rattler, slipped on loose shale, and tumbled over a sheer 300-foot drop into the cañon. Not even the Tarahumara, who’d saved his life, would attempt a climb into the bottom of that gorge to retrieve the pots and pans and camp gear. The Indian wouldn’t risk his life even for the small rawhide poke of dust and pea-size nuggets Mora had laboriously collected the past several weeks while prospecting the Sierra Madre wilderness. He’d indicated by signs and the Spanish word, “oro,” that the Indian, whose name he approximated as Quanto, could have anything on the mule. But Mora couldn’t tell from Quanto’s impassive expression whether or not he understood, or was even interested.
It wasn’t his gold and gear that he regretted losing, but rather his burro, Atlas, his closest friend, confidant, and companion for nearly two years. He hoped the fall had killed the burro instantly, so the animal hadn’t suffered the agony of broken bones and internal bleeding injuries. Peering from the rocky ledge the next day, he thought the burro, far below, probably hadn’t moved after he hit bottom.
Mora had been leading the beast around a bend in the trail when he’d nearly stepped on the thick-bodied diamondback sunning itself. The startled reptile had thrown itself into a coil and struck, hitting Atlas in the foreleg. The burro had squealed and lunged backward, yanking the lead rope from Mora’s hand, then plunged over the side. Mora had been thrown flat on his face, and, the next second, the snake struck again, puncturing his forearm. Perhaps Mora was alive now because most of the venom had been injected into the burro.
It all played out in Providence, somehow. He groaned and rolled over, pressing his cheek against the cool floor. He was so tired he could’ve slept on a bed of nails. Yet, he knew he wouldn’t rest well this night. A part of him would stay alert to any danger. It was now that he really missed Atlas. His burro was his guard, his watchman who would bray loudly at any approaching creature, human or animal. With the burro nearby, Mora had always slept soundly. Atlas, his patient, long-eared friend who he’d come to love and value more than any human; Altas, the furry, four-legged creature who could communicate without words; Atlas, who bore a black cross on the gray fur of his back as part of his natural coloring. Mora smiled faintly, recalling a Mexican acquaintance who’d assured him the cross was a reward God had bestowed on the lowly beast because one of Atlas’s ancestors had carried Jesus into Jerusalem on the first Palm Sunday.
It was his last thought as he slipped into exhausted oblivion.
Unknown to him, a near naked figure glided noiselessly through the broken archway into the darkness of the church.