Lyle Coopersmith stepped out of the adobe stable and watched the stage driver and three passengers help Lila Strunk toward the log station. He’d quickly seen that she wasn’t badly hurt, so had stood back and let the others soothe and console her. But from what he’d observed of Lila Strunk, she was not a wilting flower who needed much fussing over.
Jason Watley came up alongside, flexing his arms and rubbing the red marks on his wrists where the harness straps had bound them for several hours. “That damn’ Mex would ‘a’ cut me, too, if he thought I could ‘a’ told ’em anything,” the hostler said.
“Are you injured?” the Englishman asked as the two of them started toward the station.
“Naw. Just stiff and sore. Out here, a man expects that kinda treatment from the Apaches, but not from a white man or a Mex.”
“Mister Watley, you and Missus Strunk are very fortunate those two were not Apache Indians, or we would not be having this conversation,” Coopersmith said. He paused and took off his hat to mop his face with a large red bandanna. Except for under the sweatband, his face was hardly damp; he felt only the grainy salt of dried perspiration. Yet he preferred this desert heat to the moist tropics of several of Her Majesty’s colonies. The blazing orb that had pressed down on them all day was at last resting on the horizon, casting long shadows of men, horses, bushes, and buildings. The sky was cloudless, lacking even the usual spectacular gold and red sunset Coopersmith had come to expect. He looked forward every evening to the panoply of colors that was a partial compensation for the daily heat.
“Where did these men come from and what were they after?”
“Mister Coopersmith, I. . . .”
“Coop will do.”
“Coop, I don’t have the foggiest notion. They just appeared out of the desert on foot. I didn’t even see ’em till I went in to lunch, and then the white man pulled a gun on me and Lila.”
“Robbery, I presume. But what would anyone expect this place to have that’s worth taking?” the Englishman mused aloud to himself. “Perhaps the stock?”
“Those two half-starved scarecrows could ‘a’ scared off a buzzard. They was burned-out, dirty, ragged, and looked mighty near done in. A couple o’ desert rats on their last legs if I ever seen ’em. They was out to grab whatever they could get their hooks on.”
“What did they take besides a couple of mules and saddles?”
“I . . . think I’ll let Lila answer that, if she’s of a mind.”
Coopersmith looked his curiosity at Watley as they entered the dining room of the station. Lila was stretched out on the floor on a mattress someone had dragged in from her bedroom. A young woman passenger was using a wet cloth to clean off the superficial cuts on the stationkeeper’s neck. Two male passengers, the guard, and the driver were all crowded around her.
“Ah, Mister Coopersmith.” Lila smiled, catching sight of him. She started to rise, but the woman restrained her.
“You better take it easy, missus,” the woman said.
“I been taking it easy all afternoon in that stable,” she said irritably. “I’m all right.” She shoved the woman’s hand away. “Just a few scratches. Thanks for your help.” She pushed herself erect. “I’m really dry. Hand me that dipper.”
The guard scooped a gourd full of water from the bucket under the pump and passed it to her. She gulped it down and handed it back. “Again.”
After a second drink she seemed to catch her breath, and Coopersmith noted some color returning to her face.
“Lila, I think you and Watley need to gather up your things and come with me,” the lanky, mustachioed driver told her solicitously. “We’ll trail the extra horses behind the stage to the next home station. This place has gotten too dangerous. The company will be shuttin’ ’er down afore long anyhow. It ain’t worth anybody’s life to stay here. Apaches got your husband a few months ago, and now this. . . .”
“Charley, I’m staying!” Her tone cut off further argument. She turned to her hostler. “Watley, help get a fresh team harnessed. These folks need to be on their way. Sorry there ain’t any supper, folks,” she announced, “but the robbers took most o’ the grub, too.”
The driver gave a tight grin as she began to sling orders. “Yes, ma’am.”
Ignoring the fresh cuts still oozing blood and serum down onto the collar of her dress, she took Coopersmith by the arm. “Let’s go outside. I need to talk with you.”
“You feel up to it right now?” Coopersmith asked when they moved toward the huge cottonwood near the spring.
“I’m all right,” she said impatiently. “Just hurt my pride that I let that slippery Mexican get the best o’ me. I was off my guard since I never expected him to show up here again.”
“Did you know the man with him?”
“Never laid eyes on him.”
“Describe him.”
“Tough-looking character. Maybe forty years old. About five ten, lean and hard, prominent nose, dark hair, hadn’t shaved in a couple weeks, but his whiskers were about as short as the hair on his head.”
“Bald?”
“No. When he took off his hat, it looked like his hair was just growing out from having his head shaved. Seemed to have a little more class than Rivera. Talked nicer to me. Even took off his hat when he came inside, automatic like, as if it were a habit. Maybe had decent parents who taught him manners a long time ago.”
“Or prison guards who’d beat it into him . . . ,” Coopersmith murmured.
“What?”
“Several convicts broke out of the territorial prison while I was in Yuma,” he said. “Four or five got away. This man could be one of them. The prisoners have their hair cropped close to their skulls.”
“Come to think of it, Rivera did refer to him as a damned convict.” She looked toward the others who were milling about and conversing some thirty yards away. Three of the men worked at unhitching the team. “I want to talk to you about something else,” she said, touching his sleeve. “Word will get out about this before long, anyway,” she began. “Did Watley tell you what they stole?”
“Food, mules. Said you’d have to tell me the rest.”
“They took a sack of very rich gold ore.”
Coopersmith was stunned into silence. Apparently his face conveyed his surprise.
“That’s right,” she said. “Gold ore. Daniel Mora gave it to me last week when he came back to repay the grubstake I’d given him. Probably worth several thousand dollars. Much more than the grubstake. He told me he’d struck a mine that’d been hidden in the mountains for more than a hundred years.”
“Do you think those desert rats somehow knew the gold ore was here?”
She shook her head slowly. “No. I believe it was just an unlucky break for me. When Rivera pulled it out of my cedar chest, he looked as shocked as you did just now. I don’t have a safe to keep valuables, and he just stumbled upon it when he was ransacking the place.”
Coopersmith rubbed a hand across his dusty mustache and stared toward the afterglow in the western sky.
“But that’s not the worst of it,” she continued. “That Mex tortured me with burning sticks from the stove and with a knife until I told them where I got it. I tried to lie, but they sensed it and began to slice me even worse. Rivera threatened to slash my throat and leave me dead . . . and Watley, too. I’m terrified of knives, so I wound up telling the truth. Now I’m sure they’ve ridden off to find Mora and take his mine, and maybe kill him. Rivera hates Mora because he persuaded me to fire Rivera and hire the Indian, Quanto, in his place for pay.”
“I’m not trying to find out where this mine is, but did Mora tell you anything at all about the location of it?”
“Mister Coopersmith, I’ve always been a good judge of character, and I trust you, or I wouldn’t be telling you any of this. Daniel said his discovery was in the Castle Dome mining district.”
“That’s a good-size area of mountainous desert north and east of Yuma. If this hardcase with Rivera is an escaped prisoner, he’s taking a big chance riding back toward the territorial prison.”
“Some men will risk anything for gold, even life itself.”
“If it’s any consolation, I’m not one of those men.”
“Mind you, I was hog-tied in the stable and didn’t actually see them leave, but the hoof beats sounded as if they were heading west.”
“Makes sense, if they took that much trouble to get the information out of you.”
“Daniel also told me he’d decided not to record the claim.”
“Why?”
“Because that would make its location a matter of public record, and he couldn’t physically defend his discovery all the time. He thought secrecy was the best strategy.”
Coopersmith nodded. “That’s one more obstacle in the way of those two finding Mora’s mine.”
“Where are you going from here?”
“Back to the construction gang that’s working east from Yuma. I gave myself a short holiday to travel this far for a visit, and to work up my notes. I’m debating hiring a photographer to record some images of railroad construction for my book, but that may be too expensive.”
“I . . . have a favor to ask,” she said hesitantly, dabbing with a bandanna at the cuts on her neck.
“Name it.”
She was silent for a moment. “As long as you’re returning west, could you try to find Daniel Mora and warn him of the danger?”
“He’s a good man, sure enough,” Coopersmith stalled, unsure of what his answer would be. He knew Lila considered Mora more than just a friend in trouble. But Coopersmith had long since learned to stay clear of other people’s personal attachments. “You can bet I will,” he finally said. “I’ll start this very night, but will require a horse from you.”
“You don’t have to leave right away. Morning will be soon enough.”
“I’d prefer to travel at night when it’s cooler. I can make better time and there’s less danger from Apaches and of losing my way, as long as I stick to the Gila Road.”
“I really hate asking you to do this,” she said as they walked back toward the stagecoach. Watley and the driver and guard were just backing a fresh team into place and hooking them up.
“To tell you the truth, I was getting bloody bored with watching men build a railroad. There are only so many questions one can ask and only so many interviews one can conduct with the foremen and the workers who speak English. I’m ready for a little excitement, and this might just provide it. The only thing is . . . finding Mora in that maze of desert mountains will be difficult, especially if he’s nervous and watching his back trail, not wanting to be seen. I don’t consider myself an intrepid outdoors-man and tracker.” He smiled at her. “But I’ll certainly have a go at it.”
“If it’s any help, he did say he’d left his burro at the livery in the little Colorado River town of Castle Dome Landing. Might give you a place to start.”
Coopersmith didn’t admit it aloud, but he’d acquiesced to her plea only because he planned to revisit the Southern Pacific grading crew and somehow persuade Quanto to leave his job and join him. He realized he must have the help of a skilled tracker; he couldn’t depend on his own blind luck to locate Mora in those mountains.
“As long as you insist on remaining, I’ll stay for a few days as well and help you.” The sole woman passenger, Anna Withers, was firm in her resolve. She was about thirty, full-bosomed, with upswept dark hair. “No objections!” She held up her hand as Lila started to say something. “I’m an Army wife and have nothing better to do at the moment. I was on my way from Fort Yuma to meet my husband at Fort McDowell, near Tucson. I’ve given the driver a note to let my husband know what happened to me. I’ll take a later stage.” She reached to drag her oval grip from the rear boot as the other passengers were climbing back into the stage.
“Watley can take care of things until I’m feeling better,” Lila objected.
The younger woman arched her dark eyebrows. “Just like he was a great help this time?”
“Do you have any guns here?” Anna asked.
“The robbers took my Colt, but there’s a double barrel shotgun in the stable one of the stage messengers left for the hostler, and I’ve got a case of shells for it.”
“Good. We’ll bring it in here and make sure it’s in working order. I travel with a Thirty-Eight Colt Lightning in my duffel, and I know how to use it. But, for now, I want to get some disinfectant and clean bandages on those neck wounds, then we’ll scare up something to eat.”
Lila looked grateful, but also seemed eager to deflect this smothering attitude by turning to Coopersmith. “Get some food before you leave. There’re tortillas and a pot of cold beans.”
“I’ll manage. Don’t worry about a thing.”
“Then let me show you where my saddle horse is. Rivera and his amigo took two of my best mules. Guess they preferred animals they thought were a little hardier for desert travel.” She guided him toward the stable, saying under her breath: “I know that woman means well, but I can do for myself here. I just got careless and let my guard down. A few days of her bossy attitude and I might be all for catching the stage out of here.”
Coopersmith chuckled, and returned the wave of the driver as the stage swung out onto the Gila Road and turned east. Dusk was blanketing the isolated station.
“Watley, fetch out Pistol.”
The hostler led up a gelding as Lila lighted the coal-oil lamp hanging on a nearby post. “He’s not big, but he’s durable,” she assured him as Watley adjusted the Mexican saddle blanket over the animal’s back. “He’s got a lot of Arabian in him, a cross from one of Keene Richard’s Kentucky purebred colts, I’m told. I’ve trained him to be ground-reined,” she added. “He’ll respond to any gentle, firm command, and he can run like the wind. He’s been kept up too long and needs exercise.”
“Perfect,” Coopersmith replied. “If some of his ancestors are from the deserts of the Middle East, I’m certain he’ll do fine.”
Watley handed him an old, well-used California stock saddle. It was reasonably light he noted as he swung it into place. The saddle had a slim horn, deep seat with high pommel and cantle, and even pointed Spanish tapaderas hung from the covered wooden stirrups.
Ten minutes later, Coopersmith had tied on his bedroll, hung a full, blanket-covered two-quart canteen from the horn along with a cotton sugar sack of bread and dried goat meat. He gathered the reins and mounted.
“That bloodthirsty Rivera and his compadre have a seven hour head start on you. They looked pretty wiped out, so they’ll likely camp somewhere along the trail. Be careful you don’t ride up on them unawares,” Lila cautioned him, looking up in the yellow lantern light that illuminated the stable. Except for the inflamed, swollen burn on her lower lip, she looked as healthy as could be expected after her ordeal. A bandanna served as a temporary bandage around her lacerated neck.
“Rest assured, I’ll be cautious,” Coopersmith said, pating the holstered Colt he wore at his hip.
“Oh, and one more thing . . . ,” Lila added. “Those two are traveling together, but they’re not friends. In fact, Rivera appeared to be the other fella’s prisoner.”
“Odd. But then, there’s no honor among thieves. They often fall out with one another. Now they have your gold to fight over as well. With any luck, their relationship will turn violent before long. Too bad there’s no telegraph, or we could send a warning ahead to the law in Yuma.”
She nodded. “The wire will follow the railroad, but not in time to help us. At least the stage driver, who just left, promised to report this robbery to the U.S. marshal at Tucson.”
The territory is too vast and wild for that to do much good, Coopersmith thought. I’m on my own.
She laid a hand on the horse’s nose and looked earnestly at Coopersmith. “You must find Daniel before they do.” Her voice nearly broke, and she turned away.
Uneasy with this show of emotion, he simply said: “Keep your chin up. I’ll see you soon.”
He reined the horse around and rode off into the pre-moon darkness.