As Deraux crouched, his shoulder bumped the door behind him. To his surprise, the door gave and swung silently inward on oiled hinges. He glanced at the approaching guards. The light of their bull’s-eye lantern probed here and there behind the litter as it swung toward him, hardly a dozen feet away. He had no choice. Colt in hand, he quickly ducked inside the dark room and pushed the door nearly shut behind him.
“We could be waylaid in this damned alley,” one of the guards growled, their light flashing across the now empty doorway.
“Yeah. Keep your eyes open and your gun handy,” the other man replied as their footsteps and voices began to recede.
Deraux took a deep breath, trying to calm his pounding heart. He leaned weakly against the wall. Where was he? The room was completely dark, but, as his eyes adjusted, he could make out a dim light showing through a muslin-draped doorway leading to the next room. He holstered his pistol and, hands extended, cautiously groped his way toward the light. He bumped into a low bed and a chair, but made almost no noise, finally pausing at the curtained doorway. The odor of stale cigar smoke and perfume hung in the stuffy room. A Mexican woman sat in an armchair, filing her fingernails by the light of a coal-oil lamp. She was in a dressing gown and her wavy hair fell to her shoulders, reflecting a black sheen in the lamplight. From what he could see of her face, he got a quick impression of sultry good looks, made puffy by dissipation.
Something moved on the other side of the room and Deraux leaned back into the shadow. A lean man was asleep on the sagging couch across the room from the woman. He stirred and mumbled something in his sleep.
Deraux guessed he was in the crib of a prostitute, possibly in the rear of some saloon. He slid away toward the door he’d entered. Time to go. The guards should be gone by now. It was doubtful they’d search the alley a second time. Then he hesitated. Could he get out of Yuma wearing the guard’s uniform? Better than prison stripes, but the garb would surely call attention to him.
He carefully felt his way to the door, opened it a foot, and slipped out, closing it softly behind him. The moon was rising and the wind had died, although the air still smelled of dust.
Deraux tried to get his bearings. He had to avoid the river where most of the other prisoners had fled and the searchers were concentrated. And he would need water if he was going to strike southeast into the desert. He paused and tugged the cap down on his head. The moon gave pale illumination to the littered alleyway.
He was startled by thudding footsteps and turned to see a bulky figure lumbering toward him. Deraux brought up his Colt, the barrel glinting in the moonlight. The man slowed, snatched something off a nearby trash heap, and swung it at him. Deraux ducked, firing blindly. The board glanced off his shoulder, striking him in the ear. His cap went flying and he fell on his back, head reeling. Before he could cock the revolver, the bulky form leaped and pinned him. He heard harsh breathing and smelled sweat.
Suddenly the door behind them opened and lamplight flooded the struggling pair.
“¿Quién es?” quavered a woman’s voice.
Yellow light fell full on the flushed mustachioed face a foot from Deraux’s eyes.
“Ocano!” Deraux gasped through the chokehold. “It’s me . . . Deraux.”
The attacker’s eyes went wide. “Son-of-a-bitch!” He released his grip and drew back. “Thought you was one o’ them damned screws.”
The woman who’d opened the door moved to close it, but the big man rolled upright and thrust a big boot in the way. “Hold it, lady, we’re coming in.” Ocano dragged Deraux to his feet as if he weighed nothing. The board had left a slight cut on his ear and a rising swelling on the side of his head.
Deraux rubbed his bruised throat as he stumbled back inside. The phenomenal grip of his former cell-mate had nearly crushed his windpipe. He recognized the woman he’d been spying on a few minutes earlier. She led the way through the bedchamber and through the muslin curtain into the sitting area. The drunk was stirring on the couch.
“Lady, get this man some clothes,” Ocano said, indicating Deraux.
“I have none, señor,” she said. Her hand shook as she placed the lamp on the table. She turned to the lean Mexican now sitting and rubbing the sleep from his red eyes while looking bewildered. “Rivera, where can this man get a pair of pants and a shirt?” she asked.
“I do not know,” he said.
Deraux, who was standing closest, could smell the whiskey on his breath. A nearly empty bottle lay on the floor by the couch.
“Shit!” Ocano spat, looking at the Mexican’s lean frame. “He could swap with you, but you’re too damned skinny.” He glanced around the tiny room, then settled on Deraux. “You and me gotta get the hell outta here. That shot’ll bring the law.” He gnawed indecisively at the corner of his mustache. His baldhead glistened with sweat in the lamplight. He grabbed the woman’s arm. “What’s your name, chiquita?”
“Elena.”
“Get us two or three canteens of water . . . pronto!”
She jumped.
“Hold it.” Ocano swept up the bottle from the floor and emptied it with a swallow. “Here, fill this with water, too. I’ll be watching you, so don’t say a word about us being here, or I’ll kill you. ¿Comprende?”
“Sí, señor.” Her eyes were wide. “I swear on the Virgin of Guadalupe.”
“You’d better swear on your own life, ’cause that’s what you’ll lose if you give us away.”
“You have my word.”
She opened the door to the saloon, letting in the clamor of voices, laughter, and clinking glassware. Ocano flattened himself against the wall and caught the door, holding it open a crack so he could watch the girl.
Deraux kept his gaze on Rivera. He suspected the Mexican was not nearly as befuddled with drink as he let on. From the looks of these quarters, Deraux assumed Elena had just finished with this client.
Elena returned in five minutes with three canteens and the whiskey bottle full of water. She handed the bottle and the heavy containers to Ocano. “I told the bartender I needed the water to wash myself,” she said.
“Who’re you?” Ocano asked the Mexican.
“Angel Rivera.”
“What’s the shortest way out of town?”
Rivera pointed toward the alley.
“How far?”
“Half a mile to the edge of the desert.” Rivera looked as if he wanted to throw up from fear or a sour stomach. “You are the hombres from the prison, no?”
“How far to water?” Ocano demanded, ignoring the question.
“A day, mas o menos.”
“Speak English! How far in miles?”
“About thirty or forty miles, more or less, to the high tanks in the first mountains.”
“You know the way?”
Rivera nodded, swallowing, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
“You’ll guide us there.”
“But señor, I am not a well man. The heat . . . the tanks might be dry this time of year.”
“And you might be lying, you little weasel!” Ocano jerked him to his feet by his shirtfront, and backhanded him across the mouth. Rivera’s head snapped sideways and his fearful expression changed to one of rage.
“Look out!” Deraux yelled.
A knife flashed from the Mexican’s boot top and the blade whipped up just as the big half-breed jerked back. Ocano’s shirtfront was ripped open and a fine trickle of blood oozed from a foot-long cut on his hairy chest.
“Ah, you strike quicker than a sidewinder, amigo.” He grinned, showing big white teeth below the bushy mustache. “But you’ll have reason to regret that.”
Rivera crouched in a defensive posture, holding the blade up for another slash or thrust.
Deraux cocked the Colt, the double click of the hammer loud in the sudden silence.
“No, no, don’t shoot the little bastard,” Ocano said. “He’s defiant as a cornered rat. But we need him as a live rat, not a dead one.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take that before it gets you into any more trouble.”
Rivera, eyeing the long-barreled Colt trained on him, handed over the knife, haft forward. Ocano shoved the weapon under his belt.
Elena, who’d backed into a corner, reached into a woven bag on the floor and brought out a full whiskey bottle. “Here, señor, please take this and go, before someone comes.”
“Ah, my little puta, you read my mind.” The big man pulled the cork with his teeth, then took three huge swallows. “Whoogh!” He drizzled the ninety-proof liquid down the cut on his chest, catching his breath as he did so. “And now, we’ll bid you a good evening, with thanks for your hospitality,” Ocano said, recorking the bottle and handing it back to Elena. He turned toward the Mexican. “You! Rivera! Out the door. You will pay for your indiscretion by acting as our guide across the desert to the nearest water . . . and beyond.”
“Por favor, señor . . . I meant nothing by it. I reacted only. It was . . . a mistake.”
“You’re damned right it was a mistake, and you’re about to pay for it.”
“Please don’t make me go with you into that . . . place. Even the Apaches do not go there in August. It is the very flames of hell itself. No man can live. . . .”
“Let’s go!” Ocano jerked the whiner to his feet and flung him toward the door. “Get moving! We can be twenty miles from here by daylight.” He handed one of the full canteens to Deraux, who had holstered his weapon. Ocano yanked open the door, thrust his head out, and looked up and down. “All clear.” He shoved Rivera out into the moonlight. “If he tries to run, shoot him,” he said to Deraux.” He turned back. “Adiós, Elena. If I only had a little time, what you and I could do. . . .” He sighed and shoved Rivera ahead of him.
Deraux stripped off the uniform jacket, wadded it up and flung it over a fence behind a privy. With no hat, only dark blue pants and his long underwear top, he would not be mistaken for a guard. His cropped hair identified him as a prisoner, but they would have to steal some hats, anyway, before challenging the desert. “Shadrack, Meshack, and Abednego,” he muttered to himself.
“What’d you say?” Ocano asked.
“Nothing.”
With Rivera between them, they turned out of the alley and started east along the dusty street. Deraux realized their long, slim chance at escape had only begun.
They zigzagged through back streets and alleyways, keeping to the shadows and away from pedestrians and the light of saloons and stores. In a pool of light spilling from the kitchen door of a restaurant, they surprised four Mexicans shooting craps. The sudden appearance of Deraux’s blue-black Colt persuaded three of them to part with their straw hats. As an afterthought, Ocano scooped up the pot of greenbacks and silver pesos from the ground.
“Adiós, muchachos,” the big half-breed growled, grinning as the trio faded into the night. From there, they moved quickly toward the eastern edge of town.
“Taking that money wasn’t smart,” Deraux said. “They’ll sound the alarm and the guards will be after us.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Ocano seemed unconcerned.
“Even if they do, they won’t know where we went. Besides, the guards will never follow us into the desert.”
“Hell, no,” Deraux panted as they jogged along in the dark. “The Yuma trackers will be glad to do it for fifty dollars a head.”
“Scared?”
Deraux could almost see the big man grinning in the dark. “Not so’s you could notice it.” Deraux shoved the lagging Rivera ahead of him. “We got our Mex, here, to guide us to water.”
“Hope he knows where he’s going,” Ocano said.
“If he doesn’t, we’ll all die together.”
They slowed to a fast walk, catching their breath as they passed the last scattered adobes where Yuma trickled into the desert. Deraux had the impression of a limitless ocean rolling away to the east; a sudden qualm gripped his stomach. Yet he knew this was, for now, the safest direction away from pursuit. The other prisoners had run for the Colorado, and the search would be concentrated up and down the river. The guards knew it was suicide for anyone to attempt to cross the desert on foot. One or two of the escapees might walk the railroad bridge into California, but a lot of desert awaited them there as well.
“How many of the other boys got away?” Deraux asked.
“Vasquez won’t have to worry about drowning in the river. He was cut down in the graveyard along with a chink and another man I didn’t stop to notice,” Ocano said. “Last I saw of Gilliland, he was swimming like hell for the California shore.” Ocano paused and uncorked a canteen, taking two or three deep swallows.
“Better go easy on that water,” Deraux said. “We got a long way to go.”
“I ain’t got to this point in my life by being told what to do.”
Deraux shrugged. They had three two-quart canteens and one quart whiskey bottle full of water to see the three of them through to the next water, many miles away. He had one of the canteens slung from his own shoulder and would make sure it stayed there, if he had to defend it with his Colt from the big man. Ocano was bull-headed and would take what he wanted, regardless. During the several months Deraux had known the half-breed, the big man had not shown loyalty to anyone but himself.
Ocano corked the canteen, and the trio trudged silently away through the sandy hillocks.
Deraux glanced at the glittering ice chips of stars. The moon would shed some light for a few hours yet. They had to make time before daylight. There would be no resting for them. He wondered if the indefatigable Ocano was as sore and tired as he.
Their boots shuffled forward through the sand, each step taking them farther from the brutal guards and the choking, deadening confinement of Yuma prison. Yet it was also taking them farther from life-giving water and food, and into the temporarily dead furnace of the nighttime desert.
Hour after hour they trudged, single file, Rivera leading, Ocano second, and Deraux bringing up the rear. Except for the scuffing of their boots and their husky breathing, it was totally silent—a lifeless place.
Deraux turned and looked back. He was dismayed at how close the lights of Yuma still appeared to be. He thought of the rushing, fresh water of the Colorado, pouring thousands of gallons an hour downstream to empty into the salty Gulf of California. The tiny portion of water they carried was slung over their shoulders like life vests for ocean travelers.
The ground became less sandy and more crowded with desert scrub as it gradually sloped upward.
Ocano had assumed command by sheer force of will and dominant strength. As long as Deraux had the Colt, he chose not to waste energy by disputing authority with the big half-breed who, as far as Deraux knew, was armed only with Rivera’s knife. Ocano stopped and they all paused to sip water from the canteens. Deraux was careful not to let Rivera have more than a swallow.
“Gimme some more,” Rivera gasped as Deraux yanked the canteen away, sloshing a little on the ground.
“Shut up, you whining bastard!” Ocano said.
That was the extent of the conversation as they started again, quickly falling into a rhythmic, trance-like pace.
The moon set, and, except for the faraway stars, there was no light at all. No one lived in that country, and almost no one crossed this way, normally taking the Gila Trail, miles to the north. Besides the water of the Gila, that route also provided danger of capture, of torture and of death at the hands of the dreaded Apaches, or bandits, both American and Mexican.
A slight movement of air crept across the desert, a forerunner of the dawn. The husking of their boots on the harsh earth, and their labored breathing continued without pause. Ahead of them, the mountains in the distance were discernible only by where their humped backs blotted out the stars.
Deraux’s legs were like stone; he struggled to lift them, first one, then the other. The all day hard labor with pick and shovel, the tension and strain of the break out, the eluding of capture in Yuma, and the all night trek in the desert had sapped his strength. He’d had no food or rest for at least thirty-six hours, and now dawn was approaching. Dawn—normally a glad, refreshing time of day. But he knew, and feared, what was to follow.
The sky grew slowly lighter, and the mountains were closer. Or were they? He began to feel as if he were on a treadmill, the dry land running back beneath the thin soles of his boots, the mountains as far away as ever.
Suddenly it was light and he could see the great folds of the mountains. Each scant desert bush stood out clearly, as evenly spaced as if they’d been planted by man instead of Nature. The eastern sky flowed from dark gray to lighter gray, to pearly gray; the tops of the rounded mountains stood out starkly in the dry, clear air.
“Hold it,” Ocano said, breathing heavily. “Take a break.” He pulled the whiskey water bottle from his pocket, popped the cork, and gulped down most of the water it contained. He looked at Rivera in the early light. “By God, I didn’t see those before.” He reached out and snatched three slim cigars from the shirt pocket of the Mexican. He bit off the end of one, and said: “Gimme a match.”
Rivera complied and the big man lit up.
The aroma of cigar smoke in the fresh air seemed to reconnect the wild desert to man, Deraux thought. Not surprisingly Ocano didn’t offer to share the cigars.
“If those are the mountains we’re headed for, we got a little off track in the dark.” Ocano pointed toward the gray-green folds of a mountain to the northeast.
“No, señor,” Rivera replied. “Those are the Gilas. There is no water there. We must reach the Tinajas Altas Mountains. There.” He pointed.
“Shit!” The big half-breed couldn’t hide his shock as he gazed at the distant mountains, low in the southeast. His ruddy face had taken on a gray cast in the dawn light.
“The tanks are on the east side,” Rivera continued.
“Thirty miles.”
Ocano seemed to get a grip on himself. His eyes narrowed and he puffed on the cigar, blowing clouds of white smoke that drifted off on the light morning breeze. It was still relatively cool, even as the blazing orb shoved its head above the eastern horizon with a silent explosion of light. The new day had begun.
“We’d better get moving,” Deraux said after several seconds of silence.
“I’ll say when we go,” Ocano retorted. He sat down heavily on the ground, and proceeded to finish his smoke.
Deraux glanced at Rivera. The Mexican had a wolfish look on his lean face, as if he’d just seen his bigger, stronger prey begin to weaken. Deraux took off his straw hat and raked his fingers through his hair. Then he hunkered down, stretching his back muscles, giving his tired legs a rest. He didn’t want to sit down for fear he wouldn’t want to get up again. And he was averse to showing any weakness in front of Rivera, who was still standing.
The aromatic cigar smoke smelled better than Deraux’s own dusty, sweat-soaked clothing. He was so weary, he could have stretched out and gone to sleep on the spot. But that would have meant certain death; there was no shade for miles—only some tiny desert shrubs. He knew the worst part of their trek was just beginning. They had less than six quarts of water among them. He uncorked his canteen and tipped it up, swishing the water around in his mouth before swallowing. Not enough to replenish the moisture he was losing, but just enough to fool his mouth and throat.
“Water, señor?” Rivera asked, holding out a hand.
Deraux passed the canteen to him, watching carefully as the Mexican drank. “Enough!” He sprang up and grabbed the canteen as Rivera took a second large swallow.
“I must have water,” the Mexican said.
“You’re the smallest one here,” Deraux said. “You need less than any of us.”
“If I die, you will not find the tanks,” Rivera said softly.
“That damned whiskey has dried you out,” Deraux said. “I’ll give you enough water to keep you going. We’re all going to make it.”
Ocano flipped away his cigar butt, then rolled to his hands and knees and pushed himself slowly to his feet like a bull buffalo.
With no more conversation, they started again, facing the rising sun. The slanting rays struck Deraux’s face, feeling for the skin, probing for the moisture within. Like the hull of a ship that holds out the deadly sea, his envelope of skin and thin clothing would have to hold out the deadly rays of the sun. It would start with his exposed face and hands, searing the flesh, cracking the lips, burning the eyes, striking through the cloth of the white underwear shirt and the dark pants.
They plodded southeast, heads down, hat brims shading eyes, puffs of dust rising with every step. A half hour later the ground began to heat up. Deraux felt it through his thin soles and worn socks. The sweat and dust worked together, stinging his eyes, coating his cracked lips, working up into his nostrils, causing a gritty, salty taste in his mouth. Now and then, he glanced over his shoulder. All sign of Yuma had passed over the horizon. He half expected to see pursuing Yuma trackers. But there was no one. If the guards knew what direction they’d taken, perhaps they assumed the desert would do their work for them. The three of them were committed. They had reached the point of no return. It was either go forward and find water, or die in the attempt.
They passed the last of the scant growth of shrubs and faced an expanse of crusted earth, whitened by salt deposits—perhaps the bed of a lake dried up before man had appeared on the great desert. It was cracked and interlaced by furrows where rains had beaten on the thin crust in times past, maybe even covering the harsh earth with a sheet of water for a time. The sun would have its way, as it always did, drying up the water, then the mud, then driving what little moisture was left deep down into the ground, cracking the dried upper crust.
Deraux found a big, dirty bandanna in the pocket of the uniform pants and tied it around his nose and mouth in a feeble attempt to protect his skin from the rays reflecting up from the whitened lake bed, and to filter some of the heat and dust from his lungs. The cloth over his face was nearly stifling, but better than what was out there, he thought, slitting his eyes at the wavering heat waves rising from the sunbaked earth. How much farther, he wondered. Rivera had said thirty miles. How fast were they walking? Perhaps three miles an hour. Ten hours to the tanks. Three hours since sunrise. They’d covered less than a third of the distance, and Ocano had drained the rest of the water in the whiskey bottle and one of the two-quart canteens he carried. He left it to Deraux to share his one canteen with Rivera. More moisture was being sucked from their bodies by the furnace heat than was being replaced. Even if they survived sunstroke, Deraux estimated they’d need at least three gallons of water apiece to make this crossing. Fourteen or fifteen hours of daylight this time of year. Before dark they would be at the safety of the tanks, or they’d be running wildly, out of their minds, only to fall, belly down, their bleeding hands clawing senselessly at the sandy earth for water that was not there.
While Deraux’s vision of the ever-retreating Tinajas Altas Mountains was blurred by wavering heat waves, he turned his sight inward and with his mind’s eye saw the flowing water tap in the mess hall at Yuma prison. There was always plenty of fresh water there. Mormon Bob Heenan was still there, drinking his fill, then going to lie down on his bunk in the shady cell. Heenan had been wise not to join the break. But, then, he had only a few more months to serve.
The sun crept overhead and began its long, torturous slide toward the western horizon behind them. But, to Deraux, the fiery brass ball was fastened to the sky, so slowly did it seem to move. The heat radiated like a blast furnace, too intense and painful to be ignored by thinking of other things. His head throbbed, and he stumbled forward, automatically placing one foot ahead of the other, disconnected from the thought of walking. He sensed he was on the verge of sunstroke, and longed to pour the rest of the canteen over his head to cool himself. But he was still rational enough to know if he were to survive, he must only sip the water. He was not even aware of the other two men as he paused and uncorked the canteen, poured a little past his parched lips, swishing the warm, metallic-tasting water around in his mouth before spitting it back into the canteen. He shook the canvas-covered container, estimating it contained less than a pint. It was some relief to lubricate his mouth, but his body cried out for more moisture, for floods of cooling water. He swigged another mouthful, swirled it around, and swallowed.
Rivera and Ocano trudged ahead, unaware he’d stopped. Deraux started forward, but made no attempt to catch up.
The fear of capture no longer bothered him. It was a remote danger, compared to the fierce natural enemy that had them locked in mortal combat. But Deraux relied on his will to live and his cunning to see him through.
He had not figured on his weakness.