The warm morning breeze stirred gray-green leaves of a gnarled cottonwood that stood silently sucking moisture through its deep roots beside the shallow water of the Gila River.
A chaparral cock, commonly called a roadrunner, strutted, stiff-legged, with tail feathers erect, along the sandy road near the base of the rough-barked tree. It paused and turned its red-eyed glare toward the trickling stream. With blurring speed, it snatched a tiny gecko, torpid from the warming rays of the early sun. Breakfast squirming in its pointed beak, the bird darted into a mesquite thicket and vanished.
High overhead, a hawk hung, motionless, on the rising thermals, keen eyesight probing the brush below for a stray rodent returning late to its burrow. The raptor ignored two dark figures that moved along the dun-colored desert. They walked upright like men, and came haltingly toward the river from the south. A half-dozen black vultures appeared to follow them, drifting like pieces of charred paper against the blue sky. The vultures soared effortlessly, patiently awaiting their inevitable meal; instinct and experience told them the two men who staggered and wobbled along would soon be carrion.
A half mile away, a mule-drawn wagon rattled eastward along the Gila Road, and the broad-winged hawk banked away to hunt prey farther from these disturbances.
The sun was well up, but Hugh Deraux kept pushing Angel Rivera ahead, instead of stopping to rest. The Mexican still carried the mule gut looped over his shoulder, but it was now limp, the nauseating water it contained nearly gone. Even with severe rationing, enforced by Deraux’s Colt, they were down to less than a pint of glutinous liquid. It was now or never. After several nights of walking, they would have to push for the Gila River, or die. They could not last another night. Thus, they continued after sunup.
Deraux had lost track of the number of days and nights they’d struggled northward from the Tinajas Altas. He had only disjointed recollections of hours and hours of trudging across the moonlit desert, the Mexican in front, carrying the mule gut. Thank God for the roasted mule they’d eaten before they started. Without that, Deraux knew the kangaroo rat and the small lizard they’d managed to catch and eat raw would not have sustained them this far. The distasteful pulp of a small barrel cactus Deraux had gashed open with the Mexican’s knife had done little to allay their all-consuming thirst and save their water. They’d crossed northwest between the Copper Mountains and the Cabezas Prietas, then a long stretch of desert before they finally struck the Mohawk range where they hoped to find more granite tanks of water.
But their hopes had been dashed. The two enemies had stood, side-by-side, staring at the shallow depressions they’d struggled so far to reach—depressions containing only a crusty, scaly residue where once there’d been rain water during the rainy season. But the rainy season had long passed. Deraux’s raging thirst erupted anew with this disappointment, and he had trouble swallowing. The mucous membrane in his mouth and throat was drying up like glue. But he never winced, never let on to Rivera that he was close to the point of despair, even when the Mexican whined and cursed, his dry throat roughing his voice like the croaking of some strange animal. When the Mexican snatched up the end of the mule gut and began sucking water from it, Deraux clubbed him across the head with the barrel of the Colt, splitting open his scalp. The Mexican cursed and howled, reaching for his head. But only a trickle of blood seeped out. His life-giving blood was drying up. Nevertheless, Deraux wouldn’t allow the Mexican to guzzle their precious water. They had to make it last until they found another source. And the closest water was the Gila River, at least another thirty miles to the north.
Deraux squinted at the irregular line of vegetation ahead that signaled the course of the Gila. They’d made it, but he steeled himself against letting down too soon. They had to be sure the river was not bone dry, although various springs always kept some water in the Gila, even in the driest times. The Mexican shuffled along, head down, like a foundering horse; he’d not yet noticed the cottonwoods marking the watercourse 200 yards ahead.
Deraux inhaled deeply to gather his last strength as they approached the river. He heard the musical burbling of water over rocks and swayed forward, falling to his hands and knees by a clear pool of water. He thrust his face into it, sucking up the precious fluid, gulping it down, letting it wash over his cracked lips and crusty, whiskered chin. He vaguely heard Rivera’s inarticulate cry as he threw his whole body into a shallow pool a few yards downstream. Until the Mexican recovered somewhat, Deraux knew he had nothing to fear from him, and continued to drink.
Deraux finally rocked back on his haunches and felt for the Colt in his belt as Rivera staggered to one side, then went to his knees, wretching.
“Too much, too fast,” Deraux muttered, watching this display with no emotion. Then he heard a creaking, rattling of an approaching wagon, and stood up.
The driver pulled the span of mules to a stop twenty yards away. Two other men in the wagon had rifles across their arms.
Keeping one eye on the sick Mexican, Deraux walked toward the wagon. His knees seemed strangely stiff, as if his joints needed grease. He held up both hands, palms outward, in what he hoped was a friendly gesture. He was relieved to see these were white men, dressed in denim work clothes, and not Mexican bandits. Yet, white men or not, they could still be outlaws, although the lack of mounts said otherwise.
“How far to the next stage stop?” Deraux asked, his unused voice hoarse.
“ ’Bout fifteen mile east,” the driver replied after some hesitation.
“Sand Tank station.”
“Shore could use a lift,” Deraux said. “We’re about done in.” He kept his hat on, hoping his short hair would not give him away as an escaped convict. If these men were from Yuma, they’d probably heard about the break out.
“Where you boys been?” one of the men in the back of the wagon asked suspiciously, a carbine in the crook of his arm.
“Doing some prospecting. Got lost in the desert,” Deraux lied, hoping he sounded convincing. He gestured at Rivera, sitting on the ground by the water. “Had to shoot our mule for food and use his gut to hold water from one o’ those tanks in the mountains yonder.”
“Not many men prospect in the desert this time o’ year,” the man with the carbine said.
Deraux snorted a harsh laugh. “You can bet we won’t try it again. Thought we’d go in summer when it might be safer from Injuns.” He didn’t blame these workmen for being suspicious if he looked as disreputable as the Mexican—lean as a hungry wolf, sun-blistered skin peeking through holes in ragged shirt and pants, cut-off boots wrapped in rags to keep the soles on, several days’ growth of ratty whiskers, crusted with dried sweat.
Deraux said nothing further and the three workmen sat silently regarding this apparition from the desert for a long minute before anyone spoke.
“I reckon we can give you a ride as far as we’re going,” the driver finally said.
“You’re not going to Sand Tank station?”
“No, we’ll be cutting off to the south up ahead about ten miles.”
Deraux motioned to Rivera to come as he stepped toward the wagon, making sure to keep his hands away from the Colt in his belt. “What kind of work you men doing?” he asked, climbing up onto the wheel hub and into the back.
“Surveying for the Southern Pacific,” one of them answered.
“Thought most o’ that would have been done by now,” Deraux said in an effort at conversation to put the men at ease. He noted the tripod and instruments in the wagon bed, along with bedrolls and camp gear.
Rivera wiped his mouth with a sleeve and wobbled toward the wagon.
“The grading crew will be following behind us in a couple of weeks,” the driver said, clucking the mules into motion as the third man reached down to help the Mexican over the tailgate.
Deraux kept the conversation light and friendly, trying to divert suspicion, discussing the prospects of the stage companies after the railroad was built. The surveyors said little, and finally Deraux stopped talking. He was thirsty again, his body not having absorbed as much water as it needed. He sat propped against the sideboard of the wagon, keeping a wary eye on Rivera. The fight seemed to have gone out of the Mexican, but Deraux knew it would not pay to let down his guard. The man was as wily and dangerous as a sunning sidewinder.
The wagon bounced and rattled along for several miles over the rutted Gila Road, that trended toward the river, then away from it. Finally the driver pulled up. “This is where we turn off.”
“Thanks, gents.” Deraux climbed out and the Mexican slid off the tailgate.
“About another four or five miles down that road will fetch Sand Tank station. Or, if you’re tired of walking, there’s an eastbound stage due along this evening.”
“Thanks.”
Deraux gave the stony-faced men a friendly wave as the wagon rolled away on a faint track toward the south.
They stood until the wagon grew small in the distance before they started walking east. Deraux was glad these surveyors were not going into any civilized areas where they could report the two men they’d picked up. The water and the ride in the wagon had renewed their strength. They stopped several more times to drink from the river. It seemed a strange luxury to have water anytime they took a fancy for it.
It was nearly noon when the cottonwood-log station came in sight. A wisp of smoke at the stone chimney indicated a cooking fire, and Deraux’s stomach growled. The water had revived his system and stirred up his appetite.
“Give me back my knife,” Rivera said as they neared the station.
“Hell, no.”
“There’s a woman runs this station. I want t’cut her gizzard out.” The Mexican’s eyes were narrow slits in his dark face.
“Why?”
“I worked here as a hostler. She fired me for some damned Indian.”
“No reason you should kill her.”
“No white woman treats me like that and lives.”
“Never saw a damned greaser so full of pride it wasn’t leakin’ outta his ears.”
Rivera turned such a look of pure hate in his direction that Deraux felt a chill pass over him in spite of the heat. He placed a hand on his Colt. “Cool off. Keep your mouth shut, and let me do the talking. You make a move to start something here, I’ll kill you. Got that?”
Rivera said nothing.
“Is the Injun still the hostler?”
Rivera shrugged.
“How long since you been here?”
“Three weeks or so.”
“What tribe’s this Injun?”
“Tarahumara.”
“As long as he weren’t no Apache or Yuma or one o’ the local tribes hereabouts.”
The men headed toward the door.
“We’ll get something to eat and then wait for the eastbound stage tonight,” Deraux said. “I’ve still got that money we took offen those Mexican crap shooters in Yuma. I want to get as far away from the territorial prison as I can. And you’re coming with me until we get down to San Antone, where I can disappear without you trying to turn me in for the reward.” With a glance toward the adobe stables and corral, Deraux opened the plank door and the two men entered the low-ceilinged room. The delicious aroma of frying steak assaulted his nose.
“Watley, wash up outside. It’s about ready. You get that harness mended?” came a woman’s voice from the kitchen-anteroom.
“It ain’t Watley, ma’am,” Deraux said.
Lila Strunk appeared in the doorway. Deraux saw the middle-aged woman’s face blanch and her eyes grow wide as she stared at the dark, wolfish countenance of Rivera. “You! What’re you doing back here?”
“Give us food and water,” Rivera said.
She glanced at the open door behind them, as if looking for her hostler or the stagecoach that wasn’t due for hours. “Where’re your horses?”
“Just bring out that meat I smell,” Rivera demanded, moving toward the table.
“Get the hell outta here!” she burst out.
“Ma’am, bring the food,” Deraux said in a civil tone. “We ain’t here to hurt you. Just give us some food and water and we’ll be on our way east as soon as the stage comes in.”
“You got any money?” she asked.
“None that you’re getting!” Rivera said.
“We’ll have to be in your debt,” Deraux said a little more gently. It went against his nature to be cruel to women, unless he was riled.
“My hostler will be in shortly,” she said.
“Get the grub out here now!” Rivera snapped.
“So you’ve decided to talk English. You never did that when you worked here.”
“Why bother? With you looking down your nose at me like I was horseshit, I wasn’t gonna make it any easier for you. You could just speak my language.”
This woman had sized them up quickly, Deraux thought as the two of them slid onto the benches opposite each other at table. He’d noted her eyes taking in the Colt in his belt and glancing toward Rivera’s boot top where he used to carry his knife.
A minute later she reappeared with a tray of sizzling steaks and potatoes, along with a bowl of beans.
Rivera tore off a hunk of the flatbread and began scooping up the beans, snatching at his food like a ravenous wolf.
Deraux reached across and removed the Mexican’s sharp table knife before he got any ideas about using it. A footfall at the doorway made him look up.
“Oh, Jason, come in,” Lila said, obviously relieved.
A wiry, muscular man, the hostler was wiping his hands on a towel, then began rolling down his sleeves as he regarded the two ragged men at table.
Deraux noted a warning glance pass from Lila to Jason Watley. The hostler was not wearing a gun. “You gents go right ahead,” Watley said. “Lila and I will set outside and eat. We have business to talk over.”
He and Lila collected two tin plates and filled them.
Feeling the tension in the room, Deraux got up and moved to the inside pump, tin pitcher in hand. Rivera was still stuffing his mouth as fast as he could chew and swallow.
On a sudden impulse, Deraux pulled his Colt. “You folks sit right down over there where I can keep an eye on you,” he said. He hated tipping his hand so early, but he couldn’t take a chance on letting this pair out of sight. Watley or the woman probably had a shotgun or rifle stashed close by, and he couldn’t afford to let them get their hands on it.
Rivera looked up, his mouth full.
Lila Strunk and Jason Watley moved across the room and sat down on a bench next to the wall, holding their plates on their laps.
“Not that I don’t trust you,” Deraux said, placing the Colt on the table as he picked up his fork, “but I know you think we’re a couple of desert rats who are here to rob you. You’d be wrong. We don’t mean you no harm. We’re just about half starved and I want to keep everything quiet and peaceful until we leave.”
An uncomfortable silence ensued while the four of them ate.
“You going to keep that gun on us until the stage arrives?” Lila asked, standing up and placing her plate and fork in a bucket of water. “What then?”
Deraux was already anticipating that problem. He might have to change his plans about catching the eastbound stage. He said nothing as he finished off his meal with another drink of water. He and the Mexican had been up all the previous night, struggling across the desert toward the Gila. Lack of sleep and now the food combined to drag him down. He couldn’t stay alert much longer to guard these two. But he was even more wary of Rivera. The minute he dozed off, the Mexican would seize a knife to slit his throat, or shoot him with his own gun.
“We might have to borrow a couple of your animals and ride on outta here,” Deraux said, formulating a plan as he spoke. “We’ll leave them at the next station.” He picked up the Colt and came around the table to stand in the middle of the room. “In fact, I think a better idea would be to leave Rivera here, so you two can get reacquainted.” He grinned.
“You leave me here with that bitch, I’ll kill her!” Rivera said.
“Not if I leave your dead body.”
“You may be a damned convict, but you ain’t no killer.”
He was right. Deraux knew he could bring himself to kill only in self-defense. He’d been convicted of stage robbery, but he didn’t want to add murder to his record. He must decide quickly.
“Get up from there and search this place,” he ordered Rivera. “Take any food or money you can find and throw it in a sack. Then we’ll take two of the stage horses and light out.”
Rivera grinned at being given license to ransack his former boss’s orderly station, and went at it with a will while Lila and her hostler stood helplessly by.
Holding the Colt, Deraux moved to where he could watch the Mexican go into Lila’s adjacent living quarters, a tiny room off the main station. Rivera kicked open the wardrobe, threw her clothes on the floor, smashed the pitcher and bowl on the bedside table. He yanked the pillow and thin mattress off the bed and a pistol clattered to the floor.
“Pick that up, easy like, and slide it over here,” Deraux said.
When the Mexican complied, Deraux shoved the long-barreled Colt under his belt, still holding the other weapon.
A cedar chest was locked, but Rivera took out his fury on it with his boot. The wood finally splintered and the lock sprang open. He rummaged inside.
“By God!” He rooted down farther, slinging clothes aside. “Look at this!” He swiveled on his haunches, holding up a chunk of white quartz. Even from several feet away, its gold content was obvious to Deraux. He was stunned.
“There’s more of it!” Rivera could hardly contain himself as he brought out a double handful of the ore and dropped it on the floor. “She’s rich.” He plunged in up to his shoulders once more. “That’s all of it,” he said, several seconds later. The softly glowing pile caught the sunlight on the rough planks.
“Where’d you get it?” Deraux asked.
“My husband and I saved it up over the years.”
“That’s a damned lie. Nobody gets paid with gold ore like that. That rock is from the mountains somewhere. Maybe not too far from here,” Deraux said.
For once, Rivera seemed speechless, fondling the gold, and spreading it out around him on the floor.
“Where’d you get it?”
She was silent.
Jason Watley looked from the gold to Lila and back with an astonished expression.
“It’s best that you tell us,” Deraux said, already thinking to set himself up for life, far from this place and the clutches of the law.
“There’s plenty there. Take it and leave,” she said.
“You tell us where you got it and we will.”
She set her jaw grimly.
“Everyone back into the dining room,” Deraux said, gesturing with the pistol.
As they moved toward the table in the center of the room, Deraux went to the open door and glanced out. The desert road was empty in both directions.
“All right, lady, I’ve asked you nicely. Either tell us where that gold ore came from, or I’ll have to turn Rivera loose on you.”
The Mexican gave a wolfish grin.
Watley glared his hate at Deraux.
“A business associate of mine left that here. He’ll be back for it later, and pay me for looking after it,” she said, her voice trembling. “Said he was afraid to have Wells Fargo ship it east because of all the stage robberies.”
“Where’d he get it?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. Said it would be better if I didn’t know.”
“What’s this man’s name and where did he go?”
“I can’t tell you that. Just take the gold and go.”
“When Rivera gets through with you, you’ll be begging to tell me everything you know.” Deraux was bluffing, but she didn’t know it. He thumbed back the hammer on his Colt, then drew Rivera’s knife from his belt and tossed it to the Mexican. “Use this on her until she talks. And if you have any ideas of throwing that at me, you’ll be a dead man before it leaves your hand.”
An hour later, Deraux had the knife back. He and Rivera, gold and food in their saddlebags, canvas bags of water slung across their pommels, were riding two of the stagecoach mules west. To keep from meeting anyone, they stayed north of the Gila Road, riding parallel to the river, through as much thick mesquite as they could find.
Deraux was satisfied with a good day’s work. He’d let Rivera scare the woman, more than hurt her, although she wound up with several burns, cuts on her throat, and the threat of death ringing in her ears. She and the hostler, Jason Watley, had been left secured with harness straps and rope inside two of the stable stalls. They would be found and released by the driver and guard of the next stage, and no harm done. But she’d revealed that the gold had come from a man named Daniel Mora who’d found the vein, she said, in the Castle Dome region and was on his way there now to continue digging the rich ore out of his unrecorded mine.
Deraux was inclined to believe her story, since she feared for her life when she blurted out this information. And Rivera knew this Daniel Mora on sight. It was his Indian, Quanto, who’d been given Rivera’s job as hostler. This made the Mexican seem all the more eager not only to find Mora and take his gold, but also to take his life.