Mora woke to the blessed relief of water on his face and neck, soaking his hair.
Suddenly embarrassed, he struggled to sit up, but Quanto gently pressed a hand to his chest, and he lay back in the shade of the mesquite.
“Don’t waste it,” Mora muttered.
As if the Indian understood, he stopped dribbling water. Mora felt the cooling effect of the moisture evaporating quickly in the dry heat. Quanto put the spout of the canteen to Mora’s lips and allowed him to drink a little. The gamey water was heaven, and Mora grabbed for the canteen to tilt it up. But Quanto pulled it away, rocking back on his heels and watching.
Mora had a dull headache, but suffered more from pangs of embarrassment for needing this Indian to tend him again. He squinted at Quanto who hunkered to one side, patiently watching and waiting, an inscrutable expression on his bronzed features.
Mora closed his eyes, thinking the Indian resembled some red sandstone statue, immune to heat and thirst, as enduring as the ageless desert. Nature had designed him perfectly for this environment.
Daniel Mora, on the other hand, was from a race and culture alien to the desert and could easily be destroyed by it. It wasn’t just the cool coastal mist of San Francisco he’d fled when he came east into the Arizona Territory. He would have gladly stayed in California, but for the humiliation and hardship he’d caused his family. He had hoped the desert would provide solace, a balm for his bruised spirit. But that had been two years ago, and still he’d found little peace. With the passage of time, his mind generally suppressed bad memories, retaining many of the good. But, whenever he was weak or tired, the horror of it came rushing back in all its painful frustration. Even now, as he tried to relax and recover from the humiliation of fainting from exhaustion and dehydration, the memory goaded him.
He’d been a mid-level supervisor in the General Land Office, part of the United States Department of the Interior. He’d discovered that his regional director, a man appointed by President Grant, was selling off wholesale lots of California redwoods for his own profit. Mora had patiently gathered evidence over a period of weeks, and reported the man to Washington. The Secretary of the Interior, one of Grant’s so-called “Ohio gang,” had tried to suppress the information. But it had reached the newspapers and a scandal ensued. The illegal logging of public lands was halted. Under pressure from Congress, the regional director was fired, prosecuted, and sentenced to prison.
Instead of being praised as a good public servant, Mora had been ostracized by his supervisors. His life was made miserable by constant harassments and official admonishments, supposedly for sloppy work. But he resisted pressure to resign. He was finally fired for insubordination when he attempted to defend himself against false accusations—fired within three years of retirement, without a pension. He’d sought solace from his wife and grown children as he cast about for some kind of job. But no comfort or understanding was forthcoming. His wife, Carrie, had wailed that he had no thought for his family’s welfare, that he should have kept his mouth shut. According to her, Mora had been a fool for doing what he considered his duty, had brought down disgrace and poverty on both of them as a result of his honesty. Even though their frame house was paid for and the bills were few, she acted as if she would have to go begging. He’d finally found a part-time job as a night watchman on the docks, but it paid little. His wife had taken a job cleaning houses of the Nob Hill wealthy. She and a grown son and daughter closed ranks and turned their backs on Daniel as if he’d ceased to exist. When Carrie deigned to address him, it was only to ridicule or find fault. At first he was treated as a fool, then a pariah.
He shrank within himself, saying little, and endured it for a year. He’d even applied for another government job, this time as a clerk with the U.S. Customs Service, mainly to qualify for retirement. But he was turned down, and later discovered he’d been blacklisted by all federal agencies. He had no recourse, since Civil Service protection laws—to replace the old spoils system—were only beginning to be discussed in Washington.
Finally he’d left it all behind. Quietly, at night, he boarded a train for Los Angeles, then a stagecoach east to Yuma. There he’d used the last of his funds to outfit himself with a burro and a grubstake, and struck off north along the Colorado River, living alone, prospecting, finding barely enough gold to buy a few staples. At first he had feared the harsh wilderness, sleeping in the open with scorpions, tarantulas, sidewinders. Leery of Indians of any tribe, he carried a loaded rifle, traveling mostly at night in the searing deserts and sleeping by day in the rugged mountains. When he finally toughened up to the rigors of his new surroundings, he had time—lots of time—to ponder other things. And loneliness crept in.
“Mora!”
He opened his eyes. The shadows had lengthened; he must have dozed. Quanto was bending over him, black eyes solicitous. “Yeah.”
“¡Vámonos!”
The Indian assisted him to his feet, and handed him the carbine. Again, they started toward the mountain range.
To keep himself going until they reached the mountains, Mora continued to sip water from his canteen. No sense conserving; he’d prefer to die later of thirst, rather than sooner.
The sun finally dropped behind the mountains, leaving welcome shade. The tireless Tarahumara continued to lead. The unseen sun streaked the overhead blue with red and gold in the long summer evening. At last they reached and began to ascend the rocky slopes of the Sierritas.
Mora drained his canteen, recalling he hadn’t noticed the Indian taking a drink in the past two hours. The climb took its toll on Mora’s tired legs and laboring lungs, and he stopped frequently to let the muscle ache subside while he breathed heavily.
As twilight deepened, they’d ascended a third of the scarred face of the mountain. Quanto reached and entered a huge cleft in the rock, part cave, part vertical fissure. Heavier, cooler mountain air from higher up had begun its downhill slide to replace the lighter, heated air of the desert floor. This slight movement of wind fanned Mora’s face and brought the smell of dampness and mold from within the crevice.
Several yards inside, they reached the apex of the cleft under an overhanging rock and found a tiny spring trickling over moss-covered rocks.
Quanto gestured for Mora to drink. Having filtered through tons of rock, the water was pure and sweet. Mora drank his fill, then stood and nodded approvingly. Quanto drank, then filled both canteens. The shadows of night were filling the hollows.
Mora was weak from hunger, but there would be no food this night, unless Quanto could magically produce more jerky from his pockets. It was his knowledge of this spring that had provided succor. Tomorrow would take care of itself.
They moved out to the flat rock at the edge of the cleft and lay down to rest. Mora placed his Marlin at his side, and Quanto still had the Apache’s Colt .36 with five shots remaining. In this remote location, they should be safe enough. Yet, any roaming Apaches would surely know of this spring as well. Mora lay down and exhaustion took him within five minutes.
When he woke, stiff and sore, only a dim gray light was filtering into their shelter. Quanto still slept. Mora rose quietly, took his carbine, and padded outside, carefully climbing up where he could see down the long slope of the mountain that was covered with manzanita, scattered junipers, and dozens of plants he couldn’t identify. The sky above the horizon brightened by the minute. As he watched, miles of brushy desert he’d painfully traversed turned to a lighter gray. He took a good swig from his canteen and savored the stillness.
Forty yards away, a slight movement caught his eye. When he focused in that direction, he saw nothing. Then it came again—a rabbit, hopping in and out of the brush, stopping here and there to nibble.
Mora carefully brought up the carbine. With slow, deliberate motions he worked the lever and raised the curved butt plate to his shoulder. The crack of the Marlin echoed off the rocky hillside.
As the sun cleared the horizon, Mora and Quanto hunkered by a small cooking fire, devouring succulent roasted rabbit—the first meal they’d eaten in more than two days. Yet, even the big jack rabbit failed to provide enough for two grown men. When they’d sucked the last of the bones and chewed every bit of gristle, Mora licked his fingers, realizing he was still hungry. But it was enough to fuel his body for more walking. Maybe they could bag additional game along the foothills.
Mora stood up and took another long drink from his canteen. He wasn’t as familiar with this part of the territory, so had no idea where the next potable water might be. He carried a general map of the area in his head, and knew that Tucson lay north by east from where they stood. He was reluctant to abandon the spring Quanto had led them to, and wished for several more canteens to fill. But they had nothing to fashion another container.
How to tell Quanto that his services were no longer needed? He tried by gesture, but the Indian emphatically shook his head, then pointed to himself and Mora, and thrust a hand in the direction of Tucson. His meaning was clear.
“Well . . . if you have nothing better to do today. . . .” Mora walked back to the cool alcove and filled his canteen at the moss-covered spring. Quanto did the same and then kicked dirt on the embers of their fire.
Mora grinned. He was used to speaking to his burro, who likely understood, but couldn’t respond in words. So he expected no reply when he said: “Tucson or Bust!” He stepped off toward that village, some thirty miles away.
For the first hour, until his muscles were thoroughly warmed and the energy provided by breakfast took hold, Mora walked with pain and soreness. But he paid little attention, knowing it would pass.
They traveled the foothills, descending into the flat desert only when the washes or tumbled boulders made the going tough.
That evening, Mora, with his excellent shooting eye, bagged another rabbit—robbing some soaring hawk or owl of a meal, he remarked to Quanto. He continued talking to the Indian, never knowing how much or how little the Tarahumara understood.
Supper was a repeat of breakfast, and just as delicious in spite of having no salt, or bread, or vegetables. But this wasn’t about taste or proper nourishment—it was about renewing their strength.
Since they were out in the open that night, they alternated standing guard. There were no alarms. Except for the unseen life and death struggles among nocturnal hunters and the hunted, the night was devoid of danger to humans.
Next morning the two men struck out in a more easterly direction, leaving the mountain chain behind. Their water gave out, but Mora used his belt knife to slice out pulpy chunks of barrel cactus. They squeezed the juice into their mouths. Not palatable, but at least wet and non-poisonous.
In late afternoon, they reached the San Xavier del Bac mission. While Quanto waited patiently in a pew, Mora again gave thanks at a shrine of St. Francis. Mora had no idea what religious beliefs the Indian might hold. But Quanto apparently respected this old church as a place of special meaning, remaining respectfully out of the way. Mora did notice him gazing warily at two Yaqui Indians who came in and knelt at the altar rail.
Outside, Mora and Quanto filled their canteens from a pump and, in the gathering dusk, started the last leg of their journey. By full dark, they reached the scattered hovels and adobe buildings of Tucson.
Lacking money, Mora stopped at the nearest saloon to ask directions while Quanto remained discreetly outside in the dark. He did the same when they reached the stage office several blocks away.
“Sumpin’ I can do for you?” A stocky agent in vest and white shirt came to the counter.
Mora took a deep breath. The man exuded hostility. “When’s the next westbound stage?”
The agent removed the stub of an unlighted cigar from his mouth. “Ten in the morning, if he’s on schedule.”
“What’s the fare to Sand Tank station?”
“Twelve dollars.”
Mora hesitated, embarrassed to frame the next question. “I’m a little short of cash. Can I muck out your stables for a ticket?”
“Figured you for a tramp when you come in here,” the agent said, glancing at the trail-worn clothes and scuffed moccasins. He started to say something else, but caught himself as his gaze rested on the carbine Mora carried.
Mora felt his cheeks burning under the salt and pepper stubble. It was just this sort of treatment he’d left civilization to escape. He gave it one last try. “No odd jobs I could do for a bite to eat and a ticket?”
“Well, you might just be in luck. My stable hand got drunk and fell off his horse last night. Broke his arm. You can have the job. Pitchforks and shovels just inside the barn door. A twelve-dollar ticket’s worth more than one night’s work, but, if you’ll oil all the harness hanging in the tack room, it’s a deal.” He turned away toward his desk. “By the way, if you need a place to sleep, you can bed down in an empty stall when you get done. But, no smokin’, mind you. Don’t want the place burned down.”
“Thanks. You got a deal. Would a really good job buy me one extra ticket?”
“Don’t push your luck.” The agent glanced around. Mora stood alone in the office. “Somebody else goin’?”
“Maybe.”
“The job ain’t worth that much, and the company don’t like me passin’ out free tickets.” He paused. “Tell you what . . . I’ll give you an extra silver dollar outta my own pocket if the job’s done right and you fork down some hay into them stalls, and pour a little grain into the feed boxes. There’s a big pile for the old straw and manure out back.”
Mora nodded, knowing he was doing the man a favor. The agent would have had to do the dirty work himself, since it was unlikely another stable hand could be hired before the next stage came in. And who knew when one of the bosses might show up and find the stables a mess? Mora was aware the Texas and California Stage Company ran a tight operation. They had to be efficient to remain in business, since their coaches would inevitably lose this route to the Southern Pacific that had already built its line east as far as Yuma.
As Mora turned to leave, satisfied he’d done the best he could, he paused by the pot-bellied stove and touched the blackened coffee pot. Still warm.
“Go ahead and help yourself,” the agent said. “I’ll be throwin’ it out when I close up shortly.” He paused. “Besides, you look like you could use sumpin’ to perk you up.”
Mora didn’t need a second invitation. It had been weeks since he’d had a cup of coffee. He filled a tin cup and swigged down the bitter, lukewarm brew, getting a mouthful of grounds in the process. Then he poured the dregs of the pot into the nearly empty canteen, and left.
In the shadows at the corner of the adobe building, he handed the canteen to Quanto and pointed him toward the stables. The Indian took a gulp of the coffee and made a wry face. Mora grinned in the semidarkness; he’d finally gotten a reaction of some kind from his impassive traveling companion. But then Quanto decided the stuff wasn’t too bad and drained the canteen.
“Reckon you did OK,” the station agent said, hands on hips and looking around at the clean stalls. Early sunlight was lancing through gaps in the board wall. “You ain’t lookin’ for permanent work, by any chance?”
“No, thanks. Took us a good part of the night to finish cleaning and oiling all that harness.”
“Well, here’s the silver dollar I promised you. Come on into the office and I’ll get that ticket.” He glanced at Quanto. “Hope he ain’t Apache.”
“Tarahumara.”
“What? Oh, that tribe down in Mexico?”
“Yeah.” He offered no further explanation.
They entered the office and the agent made out the ticket to Sand Tank station and handed it to Mora. “Probably better if your friend stays outside. He ain’t too good for my business.”
Mora walked Quanto out onto the wooden porch, and indicated by sign for him to stay there.
A big man, dressed in overalls, tan shirt, and sweat-stained hat, with leather gloves protruding from a hip pocket, passed them and entered the office.
“This here’s my hostler, Bill Butler,” the agent said when Mora reëntered the room. “I’m goin’ over to the Shoo Fly Restaurant for breakfast. He’s in charge until I get back.”
On impulse, Mora thrust out the silver dollar. “Since the Indian probably isn’t welcome over there, would you mind buying us something to eat and bringing it back?”
“OK.” The agent took the money and left.
By the regulator on the back wall, it was only eight-fifteen. They had at least a two-hour wait for the stage.
“You know if the westbound stage is on time?”
Butler was busy lighting a cigar. “Don’t have no notion. The Injuns cut the wire through Apache Pass every time ya turn around, so we don’t get a telegraph message if it’s delayed.” He blew a cloud of smoke at the ceiling.
Mora went back outside and the two men sat on the edge of the porch.
Two matronly women in colorful shawls sauntered past. A white man rode by on horseback, kicking up dust. A horse pulling a light buggy swung up to the hitching rack and a young man in a white shirt and vest jumped down. He dragged a canvas sack, stenciled u.s. mail, from behind the seat and, slinging it over his shoulder, entered the office. A minute later, he hurried back out, perspiring in the morning heat, and climbed into the buggy, unwrapping the lines and slapping them over the back of the sorrel.
Already full of self-importance and trying to impress his boss, Mora thought. How like him I was thirty years ago. Look at me now . . . an old desert rat reduced to mucking out stables for food and stage fare. In spite of the fact that he’d slept well on the clean-smelling, soft bed of hay, he was feeling sorry for himself. That usually happened only when fatigue made his problems seem insurmountable. He could have stayed home and been miserable. He hadn’t had to abandon his former life and become a hermit in this god-forsaken country to remain unhappy. Yet, he knew, deep down, the desert solitude had been good for him. This brief touch with civilization was what had soured his outlook, causing him to feel cheap again in the world of human commerce.
“Quanto, I wish you and I could talk. Might find out why the hell you’re tagging along.” He shook his head. “Maybe I don’t really want to know. My faith in human nature couldn’t stand another jolt. I’d just as soon think of you as my altruistic guardian angel.”
A half hour later, the station agent returned with two plates of fried ham and biscuits. The two men ate like starving wolves. Then Mora returned the plates to the restaurant, and the two men helped themselves to coffee inside the office.
At twenty past ten, the stage rolled in, trace chains rattling, a cloud of dust boiling up behind it.
“Whoa! Whoa!” The driver set the foot brake and climbed down, tossing the reins to the hostler, Bill Butler, while a Mexican boy jumped to unhitch the tired team.
Two men alighted and handed down two women. One of the well-dressed couples, apparently husband and wife, were greeted by a man in a buckboard and driven away.
Overhearing part of the conversation of the other two, Mora guessed they were casual acquaintances—through passengers who’d alighted to stretch their legs during the brief stop.
Twenty minutes later, a fresh team was hitched and the driver was calling for everyone to board. Mora handed the driver his ticket. “My friend doesn’t have a ticket. I’m short of cash, but if you’ll take us both to Sand Tank Station, I’ll get the money there.”
The driver set down his tin cup and brushed his sweeping mustache with the back of his hand. He looked Mora up and down, and then glanced at Quanto standing behind him. “We ain’t in the business of haulin’ passengers for free . . . especially redskins.”
“Lila Strunk, the stationkeeper at Sand Tank, is a good friend of mine. She’ll lend me the fare.”
“You know Lila?” The driver hesitated.
The shotgun guard was stowing the mail sack in the boot and the Mexican boy held the stage door open for the woman passenger to reboard.
“I’ve known her a while. She’s good for the money,” Mora insisted.
“Hell, lots of people know Lila Strunk. Don’t matter about the fare. I got a refined white lady in that coach. I ain’t exposin’ her to no dirty savage.”
“He could ride up top.”
The driver strode toward the door, pulling on his calfskin gloves. He paused and turned back. “Didn’t you hear me right, mister? I said no!”