Daniel Mora opened his eyes to complete darkness. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep. But apparently the moon had set; no outside light filtered through the gaps in the building.
What had awakened him? Maybe a mouse scampering over his body, he guessed, or some unusual sound. All he knew, as he rolled onto his back, was that he’d been lying on the cool stone floor long enough to stiffen badly. The muscles of his shoulders and legs protested at being asked to shift position. Body too old . . . trail too long, he thought, stretching his limbs and staring up into the darkness. Living rigor mortis. As a younger man, he’d welcomed the soreness from rough games and exercise. It’d made him feel vibrant, alive. Now it was just pain—an inconvenience that he required longer to recover from. Nature’s way of preparing him to crave the long rest of death.
He closed his eyes and was relaxing into a doze when a chirping whistle came from outside. Some early-rising desert bird, sensing the coming dawn? He’d never heard that bird call before, and sunup was more than an hour away. He’d sleep a little longer, then be up and moving.
Thump! Clang!
He sprang up at the sound of a scuffle several yards away, snatched his carbine, and jacked a round into the chamber.
“Mora!”
The hoarse whisper sent the hair prickling on the back of his neck. Mora hesitated, heart racing, eyes wide, seeing nothing in the darkness. He crept several feet to his left and flattened his back against the wall, then swept the gun barrel in an arc, contacting nothing.
“Mora!”
He heard shuffling steps and someone breathing.
“Who is it?”
“No shoot!” the voice pleaded.
Mora edged away from the sound until he felt a break in the wall that led to the side door. Then he slipped around the corner and darted toward the faintly visible archway. He would take his chances in the open, and he sprang through the doorway, covering the outside ground quickly, breathlessly. It was deserted. A few faint stars dotted the pre-dawn sky. It was still too dark to see anything but general shapes.
“Show yourself!” He kept his voice low, intense.
“No shoot!” the voice said again from inside. The inflection had a vaguely familiar ring. Then Mora saw a white blob appear in the black doorway. He shivered as if the spirit of St. Francis himself was emerging from the side door of the ruined church. He held the Marlin at hip level, finger tightening on the trigger.
“Mora, no shoot!” the apparition repeated as it came toward him.
Sudden relief flooded over him, and he felt weak. He eased down the hammer and lowered the rifle. It was Quanto, the Tarahumara Indian who’d saved his life. He was wearing a white shirt that was flapping open and had given him the ghost-like appearance. Had he just slipped into the garment in order to be seen and recognized?
“Quanto! By God!” Mora breathed. “You scared hell out of me!”
Dawn was graying objects around them.
The Indian put a finger to his lips for silence. As he drew near, Mora saw a bloody knife in his hand. Quanto pointed toward the church. “Apache!” He spat to one side as if the word had a bad taste. He jerked the edge of his hand across his throat, and Mora understood the sounds of the scuffle. Quanto had descended like a fierce guardian angel to cut down the Apache attacker, saving Mora’s life by feet and seconds. That was twice the Tarahumara had averted the hand of death.
After a quick look around, Quanto silently glided away toward the shelter of the mesquite. Mora followed him more than 100 yards into the thick growth before the Indian began to circle back toward the Santa Cruz River. Mora was curious but gave the Indian credit for knowing the situation. From the way Quanto moved, they were not out of danger.
They halted in thick trees at the edge of the stream. Summer monsoons had not yet dumped their floods over the valley to swell the marshy Santa Cruz that was fed by cienagas and springs.
“La agua es la sangre de la tierra,” he muttered the old saying. “Water is the blood of the land.”
Quanto, who apparently understood Spanish, nodded as he gazed around intently.
The saying was certainly true here. Only because of this river had the Jesuits, and later the Franciscans, been able to locate a mission on a former site of a Tohono O’odham village. Acequias, small irrigation ditches, had supplied the priests and Indian converts with water to nourish vast orchards and fields that supported the compound. More than 1,000 residents, along with herds of cattle and sheep, were protected by Spanish soldiers located only four miles away at Tubac. Mora wished there were Spanish soldiers nearby now.
A light dawn breeze stirred the leaves of a giant cottonwood. The rustling leaves would mask sounds of anyone approaching. Mora saw and heard nothing unusual, but apparently Quanto’s senses were sharper. The Indian crouched and led the way to the marshy edge of the stream. They waded into the water, Mora’s moccasins sinking into the soft muck. They pushed their way, waist-deep, into the thick willows; the water was pleasantly cool.
Quanto, leading, let himself sink until only his head was above water. Mora did the same, thinking that he needed a good bath. This would soak the sweat out of his clothing. He was glad his matches were waterproofed with wax, and the cartridges sealed. He knelt on one knee, rifle submerged, his head just out of the water. The reeds were so dense he could barely see Quanto’s dark hair and features only three feet away.
They remained motionless for several long minutes as dawn silently filtered through the foliage. Mosquitoes began to whine around their ears. Birds awakened to the new day. He recognized the call of the cactus wren. Through a break in the willows, he saw a killdeer strutting along the riverbank.
He sensed movement and shifted his eyes without turning his head. Two half-naked Apaches, one wearing a red headband, were approaching, pointing toward the ground. The sight of stalking death tensed Mora’s stomach. The trackers disappeared behind the thick foliage, but their low, guttural voices were close. They halted where he and Quanto had waded into the marshy stand of willows.
Before Mora could even speculate on their next move, he heard the clicking of hammers being drawn to full cock. The serene dawn was shattered by the roar of gunfire. Large-caliber slugs ripped through the reeds near his head. The Apaches were firing blindly into the willows, whooping and laughing as if drunk.
Quanto ducked beneath the surface and Mora saw the surge as the Indian pushed off the bottom toward deeper water. Mora drew a deep breath, submerged, and followed, holding himself under by grabbing the thick reeds at their base and pulling forward, squirming through thick underwater growth, the awkward rifle impeding his progress. He heard the zip and pop of bullets striking the water all around, their force quickly diminished.
Eyes shut, holding his breath, he kicked and clawed toward the safety of the channel. He knew their bodies were churning up the shallow water, bending the willows and leaving a plain trail for the murderous Apaches to fire at. Maybe they’ll think we’re thrashing in our death throes, he thought. Then he felt the slight tug of a deeper current as the reeds thinned and disappeared.
Heart thumping, he stroked forward, lungs burning for air. How much longer could he hold on before he had to surface and breathe? A kicking foot brushed his face, as Quanto swam ahead of him. Mora slitted his eyelids, but could see only a very faint gray. He stroked ahead with one hand, gripping the cumbersome carbine with the other. But every foot, every yard he made would take him farther out of danger. Maybe they can see the wake of our swimming bodies in this shallow river, he thought. He pictured them walking leisurely along the bank, waiting for him to surface so they could blow his head off. The thought made his pulse race, quickening his need for oxygen. Mora decided he’d better be ready to come up shooting. But he’d have to be able to stand on the bottom to brace himself, so he prayed the wet rifle would fire. Remembering there was a shell in the chamber, he thumbed back the hammer underwater.
Quanto’s lung capacity was much greater than his own, but Mora forced himself to stay under until he began to see spots before his eyes and his lungs were afire.
Finally he could stand it no longer and let his body’s natural buoyancy drift him upward, trying not to splash as his face and head broke the surface. He gasped, filling and emptying his lungs as he quickly scanned the bank. No Apaches in sight. Thick bushes and trees bordered the stream.
He bounced gently along in the chest-deep current for several yards. Then Quanto surfaced ahead of him. The Indian signaled for them to stay in the water and keep going. They waded and drifted in the shallow stream for another quarter mile, scanning both banks, alert to any movement. But they saw no one. Mora began to think the two Apaches had actually been drunk and had just shot at them for entertainment or sport. But then he thought it odd they’d be drunk at dawn. Maybe they’d been drinking most of the night. The Apache who’d crept into the church was either planning a dawn attack, or rumors of Apaches not fighting at night were false.
Even though the church had been long abandoned and the Blessed Sacrament removed, it seemed almost sacrilegious for a dead body to lie inside while coyotes, wolves, or buzzards came to devour the carcass. Perhaps the two stalking Apaches, believing he and Quanto were dead, had gone back to retrieve the body.
By silent consent they waded ashore at a point where the bank was clear of vegetation. While Quanto’s keen eyes scanned the surrounding terrain for any sign of the enemy, Mora shook the water from his rifle as best he could. The desert air would dry it quickly. He made a mental note to clean and oil it when he reached Tucson.
Apparently they were safe for the time. Now Mora took the lead, motioning for Quanto to follow, and started walking north, across the desert, lining up a range of western mountains as a compass reference. Quanto carried a canteen, knife, and nothing else. He was wearing moccasins, tan pants, and a white shirt. A blue headband held his long hair out of his face.
Mora had lost his hat, so ripped a sleeve off his shirt and wrapped it into a makeshift turban around his wet hair as protection from the fierce June sun. He was uneasy in the thick mesquite where he couldn’t see far in any direction. Too much danger of ambush. He’d feel much better when they reached open desert, away from the dense chaparral.
They’d traveled a mile when Mora caught sight of the church’s unfinished bell tower a half mile to their right as they passed it again. Since their initial flight, they’d nearly circled the compound.
Mora walked swiftly, eyes darting left and right. Suddenly he saw a slight movement and his heart leaped. He swung up the carbine just as an Apache leaped from the cover of an arroyo and fired a revolver. The bullet kicked sand at Quanto’s feet, and he dove to one side as Mora’s Marlin exploded from hip level. The Apache spun back, dropping his pistol, and staggered out of sight into the wash. Mora dashed to his left, into the mesquite, trying to get down the arroyo farther along to see how many attackers there were. A half minute later he caught sight of two brown bodies disappearing at a stumbling run over a hillock toward the church. One Apache with a red headband was helping the wounded one. Mora recognized the warrior as one of those at the river. Apparently they were the same two assailants.
He looked around. Quanto was crouching beside him, holding the pistol the Apache had dropped. He was blowing sand out of its mechanism. It was an old .36-caliber Colt percussion revolver that had been converted to fire cartridges. Five of the six cylinders were still loaded. By downing the Apache before he could get off a second shot, Mora had saved Quanto’s life, partially repaying the debt he owed this Indian.
“Damned good thing most Apaches aren’t good shots with handguns,” he said, knowing Quanto probably didn’t understand him. “Let’s go.” He jumped up and jogged away, dodging this way and that, finally breaking clear of the dense mesquite to the more open terrain that was dotted with saguaro, Spanish bayonet, and a variety of desert growth.
“I’d bet they won’t be after us now,” he said over his shoulder.
Quanto was watching their back trail. The Tarahumara likely had more experience with other Indians, but, in brushes with roving Apache bands in the past, Mora had discovered they would not doggedly continue a pursuit or siege if odds didn’t favor swift victory. He suspected that, of the three warriors on their trail, one dead and one wounded was enough to discourage pursuit. In the long war of attrition with whites and Mexicans, the various Apache bands were hit-and-run guerilla raiders. Much fewer in number, they couldn’t afford to take many losses. He had no idea why these Apaches would be after him; he had nothing to steal except his rifle and ammunition. But that was enough—along with the pleasure of watching another white-eyes die.
He jogged across the relatively flat desert terrain, automatically dodging the thorniest of the desert shrubs, aware that his soaking in the river had softened the hard soles and button toes of the high desert moccasins.
During the next half hour, he felt himself growing less cautious as they put more distance between themselves and the ruined mission with no sign of pursuit.
Suddenly he gasped as a thorn stabbed through the softened rawhide and buried itself in the ball of his right foot. The sharp pain caused him to stumble forward and fall to his hands and knees. He sat up and gingerly pulled off the tall moccasin that was turned down at the top and tied around his calf. A two-inch thorn was extracted with the moccasin, leaving a tiny, purplish hole, throbbing like a toothache.
Quanto was on one knee, hardly winded. Mora reached down and gently squeezed the ball of his foot to force out a few drops of blood. He wiped it off and slid the moccasin back on. The rawhide was drying rapidly. That thorn would probably have penetrated a cavalry boot, he reflected, wondering how much the pain would cause him to favor the foot when they started on.
But for now, they silently consented to take a breather. Quanto stood up and scanned their back trail, then checked the loads in his captured Apache pistol. Since they could barely communicate with words, Mora was left to wonder why this stranger from another culture had taken it upon himself to protect the aging white prospector. The Tarahumaras were a peace loving people he’d been told. But, being forced into the mountains by invading tribes and whites had conditioned them to be tough and resilient. Mora thought Quanto’s people would be resentful of any white men who wandered into the rugged Sierra Madre.
As his excitement ebbed, Mora sagged, completely fatigued. The past three days of traveling afoot in the desert heat, the pre-dawn escape, the near miss in the river, another close call with the stalking Apaches, followed by a half hour of jogging had taken their toll on his middle-aged body. Most of the time he ignored the effects of the creeping years, assuming his mind and iron will could overcome any physical weaknesses. But now he wasn’t so sure.
Quanto reached under the flap of his shirt pocket and produced two short sticks of jerky, holding one out. Mora nodded his gratitude to the provident Indian and bit into the river-softened dried meat. Likely goat, but the salty, stringy meat was the most delicious food he’d ever tasted. He tried to eat it slowly and savor it, to fool his stomach into thinking it was full when he finished, since this was all he was likely to have for some time to come.
He sat in the shade of a mesquite, chewing on the jerky and studying the Indian’s impassive features. The whiskerless, leathery face might belong to a man of thirty-five—or fifty. Mora wished they could speak to one another. Who was this Indian, anyway? Why had he twice rescued a strange white eyes? Treating him for snakebite was possibly only a humane act one man would do for another. But then to follow him seventy miles as an invisible protector. . . . It made no sense. During more than a half century of living, Mora had never encountered anything like it. He was eager to probe the Indian’s motivation. Was it for money? Mora had already made Quanto understand that he could have Mora’s outfit and what little gold it contained—provided the Indian could somehow salvage the pack from the dead burro in the bottom of the gorge. Maybe Quanto thought Mora knew the source of much more of the yellow metal, and wanted to find the source. The Tarahumaras were a very poor people. And Quanto had not attempted to retrieve the pack, so he couldn’t know what was in it, despite Mora’s efforts to tell him.
Mora looked away and chewed the jerky thoughtfully. Maybe the Indian had gone to the trouble of saving Mora from poison, and wanted to protect his investment of time and effort. Perhaps Quanto only wanted a shot at his ancient nemesis, the Apache. To discover the real reason, Mora would have to wait until he could find a Mexican to translate, since Quanto seemed fluent in Spanish, while Mora was not.
They finished their meager snack. Instead of renewing his strength, the jerky had only stimulated Mora’s hunger. He was still aching, and extremely tired. He brushed away the small stones and stretched out in the shade.
But Quanto said something and rose to his feet, pointing toward the distant, terraced mountains. Mora reluctantly pushed himself erect and followed as the Indian started off at a brisk walk. Evidently Quanto thought it was too early to rest.
Where was the Indian going? Did he have some destination in mind? Mora was bound for Tucson, more than a day’s walk to the north. Currently they were angling slightly to the northwest.
At first, Mora kept an eye out for rabbit or peccary—even a coati mundi—anything he might be able to shoot for food. As the day wore on and he saw nothing, he realized most desert mammals were either nocturnal, or hunted in the late evening and early morning to avoid the heat.
The two men trudged along, mile after mile. Mora’s thorn-punctured foot finally settled into a dull ache. His legs moved automatically, while fatigue slowly drugged him into a rhythmic trance. His eyes, through slitted lids, were fixed on the bobbing white shirt a few yards ahead. The sun rose in its long arc, then began a slow slide down the western sky. No breeze fanned them. The heat built in the low desert until every breath seemed to sear the mouth and throat. Their clothing dried quickly, then the merciless sun began sucking moisture from their bodies.
Now and then he swallowed a little from his two-quart canteen, but never took as much as he craved. He could have easily gulped down the remaining two or three pints without taking the spout from his lips. But the musty, tepid river water was more precious than liquid gold. It had to last an indefinite time. To run out of water here was to die. He hoped Quanto knew this area and was headed toward the next stream or tinaja. What irony—to survive snakebite and Apache knives and bullets, only to die an agonizing death of thirst.
When he next looked up, the wrinkled, gray-green mountains were perceptibly closer, but still miles away. If he was oriented correctly, those were the Sierrita Mountains. It seemed every large or small hump or ridge of desert hills in the territory had a name. He recalled the parable of the rich man in hell looking across the great chasm to heaven, begging in vain for the poor man to dip his finger into water to cool his tongue. An apt image of his own situation, he thought, except that he still had hopes of reaching the cooler heights of heaven in the mountains. When he did, he would part ways with Quanto, then correct his own course for Tucson. He uttered a quick prayer to St. Francis to aid him.
For now he must concentrate on conserving energy. Even though an older man required less fuel than a younger one, his strength had nearly run out. He felt disconnected from his feet and stumbled often. He was becoming light-headed, and his eyes refused to focus on the distant mountains. Contorted arms of nearby saguaro cactus seemed to reach out for him. Then everything tilted crazily in his vision and the sandy earth came up to smack him in the side of the face.