Crossing the Wire (12 page)

T
HEY LET
R
ICO AND ME
get to the water. I drank my fill, and then I drank some more. “Pretty soon his ankle will swell up,” Jarra was telling Morales as they watched from the shade of a nearby mesquite. “His whole leg is going to bloat like a carcass. We'll have to leave him behind.”

“I give you permission to carry his pack, if that's what you're wondering about,” Morales said with a laugh.

Jarra looked at me with hatred, flicked back his forelock and said, “Why not put a bullet in him?”

“Don't listen,” Rico whispered. “He's only messing with your mind.”

I crawled off to wait for the swelling and the horror to come. “I'll stay behind with you, no matter what,” Rico said.

“Don't. He'll put a bullet in you, too.”

After an hour, my heart was still racing, my head still pounding,
but my ankle and leg were the same as ever. “Calm down,” Rico said. “Maybe nothing's going to happen from the snakebite.” He fell asleep.

The sun was stuck in the sky. Time dragged. In Arizona, a day in May went on forever. Hours later, the sun was finally sinking. The bump on my head was swollen and I was suffering from the heat, but that was all.

Moonrise wasn't far off. The mules were getting ready to saddle up again, and so was I. They were all talking about me and the rattlesnake, wondering how I could have been so lucky. Paco said there was such a thing as a bite with no poison, and that must be what happened. Jarra gave me a look as if to say he would deal with me later.

I could only think I had been given a miracle. I knew who to thank: the Virgin of Guadalupe, whose image I carried in my pocket, and my mother. She had been lighting candles for me in the village church, same as she used to for my father.

As soon as the moon rose over the mountains, huge and brilliant, we started out. We were going to walk all night again. There was talk about a well. Our direction remained the same: due north, up and down the flanks of the mountains. Late in the night, we came to the bottom of a canyon, and the well. A rugged dirt road ended here. There were tire tracks in the road, which made the mules nervous. Morales went down the road to stand guard as Jarra lowered a bucket. I drank the last of my water.

The bucket struck bottom with a hollow clang. Every mule let
out a groan, me included. Jarra went to find Morales. I looked around for Rico, but he wasn't there.

A few minutes later Rico was back. I asked him where he had been. “Call of nature,” he whispered. His eyebrows were all knitted together, never a good sign.

“What's wrong?” I whispered back.

“Tell you later.”

Morales and Jarra returned. “Saddle up!” Morales ordered.

After that, I couldn't stop worrying. The way Rico was acting, I knew he must have overheard Jarra and Morales, heard them talking about us. But what, what had he heard? What a relief, when dawn finally came, to drop my pack, flop beside it on the ground, and think about food instead.

Each of us was issued two tins of fish and two tortillas. The sardines were salty and packed in mustard. It was difficult to get them past my swollen tongue without water.

“Saddle up!” Morales ordered, all too soon. The sun shot up like a rocket and stuck there, scorchingly high in the sky. I hated the boss as much as I hated Jarra. The head of the centipede, with his light pack, didn't seem to notice that the rest of us had to run to keep up. Somebody was going to drop dead. The sun was practically overhead before Morales, with a grin, finally unslung his rifle. “Find shade,” he said. “We'll take a siesta.”

The shade was scarce and quickly taken. As usual, Rico and I were going to have to walk the farthest to find any. We exchanged glances as we stumbled along in the heat. “We have to talk,” Rico said.

“I haven't forgotten.”

We crawled under the branches of a mesquite. “We have to get away,” Rico said. “They're going to kill us.”

“Did you hear them say that?”

“It's what somebody else heard—Cornelio, from Nogales, the one who fell, and you helped him up. He heard Jarra telling Morales that they couldn't let us go when this was over. That we would talk. That we would identify them.”

“Did Cornelio say what Morales said back to Jarra?”

“That Jarra could take care of it. Jarra said he'd be happy to.”

“Mother of God! Maybe we should go now, Rico. I think everybody will sleep a while, Morales and Jarra included.”

“What about water?”

“Take our chances on finding some?”

“Maybe so. Right here, right now, we have a chance at a head start. We have to hope the siesta is a long one. Do we go down into the valley or up into the mountains?”

“Down below, it's crawling with Border Patrol.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that. But these mountains are dry as a bone.”

“Miguel said that mountains have water. It's just a matter of finding it.”

“Ah, the wise Miguel.”

“Rico, shall I strangle you now or later?”

“Later,” he said. “I think you're right about going where the Border Patrol aren't.”

“These mountains are skinny. We can cross them quickly,
straight across to the other side. We'll hit that paved road from Sasabe up to Tucson.”

“We'll get lucky and get a ride.”

“We have to hope so.”

We got ready. We were going to go light—my pocketknife, a tin of fish in each of our back pockets, our empty water jugs. Rico took a walk back through the mules, to see if any were on their feet. “It's now or never,” he said when he got back.

We propped our packs out in the open to make it seem we were close by, then sneaked away. The first patch of solid rock we came to, we started climbing. “They aren't going to follow,” I said, “not in this heat.”

“Jarra would be crazy enough,” Rico said, and I knew he was right.

We kept climbing. Sometimes it was hand over hand. The slope was taking the brunt of the midday sun, and we were drenched with sweat. We climbed out of the foothills and onto the slopes of the higher mountains, above where the giant cactus could grow. “It's much cooler up here,” I gasped.

“Your brain is boiling 'mano.”

“So is the water in my jug. It's going to burn a hole in the plastic.”

“In case you haven't noticed, your jug is empty.”

“I'm afraid I will scald my tongue.” I took off the cap and pretended to drink. “Now we're both out of water.”

“At least no one is following us as we are dying of thirst.”

“Thank God for that.”

We couldn't keep climbing straight up. The slope was getting even steeper, and was overgrown with cactus and yucca. We angled to the north, climbing more gradually. Eventually we came within sight of a huge canyon down below. We had to find water.

The heat had us feverish, dizzy, stumbling, skinning up our knees and hands. We followed an animal trail around the slope as we approached the canyon. Vultures and caracaras were circling overhead—did we look that bad off?

By Rico's watch, it was four o'clock, four hours since our escape, and still broiling. We angled into the canyon in the direction of some mine tailings and a tumbled-down shack close to the bottom. The slope was steep, strewn with gravel loose as marbles. It was going to take a long time to get down, but we didn't have any choice. There had to be water down there. Without water, a prospector wouldn't have lasted long enough to build a shack. Without water, we weren't going to make it over the mountains.

At the shack, we found nothing but bottles turned purple by the sun, bits of ancient trash, decades of rat droppings. A rusty well casing sticking out of the ground raised our hopes. The pipe was six inches across, wide enough to let us lower one of the bottles inside, if only we could find some cord or wire. But would there be water?

I dropped a small stone down the pipe to find out. It hit with a solid clunk. Rico made a bitter face and swallowed hard. “Maybe farther up the canyon,” I said.

The floor of the canyon was smooth as concrete. We rounded a
bend and there suddenly was our water, glistening where it dripped out of a seam above the bedrock.

Rico's eyes went to something else, and then I saw, too. To the side and in the full glare of the sun lay the body of a man in uniform, a uniform with a dark green shirt.

“Border Patrol,” Rico whispered.

We walked up close. The man was on his back, eyes closed. Flies were buzzing around his round, full face. “His chest is all swollen up,” I said.

“That's his body armor, underneath.” Rico felt for a pulse at his neck. “He's alive. Heat got him, I guess.”

“You think he was after us?”

“Who knows? I'm just wondering if there's more of them.”

“Doesn't seem like it,” I said, looking over my shoulder. “No shade to drag him into. Maybe water will bring him around.”

“What about his gun, that radio, that club, and the can of spray?”

“Hide them?”

“Drop 'em down that pipe we found, where he can't possibly get to them. It's only a couple of minutes back.”

“You sure about the radio? Wouldn't he need it to call for help?”

“Are you kidding? Let him call for help? That would be the end of the story for us. If we get him cooled down, and he comes to, he's on his own. Just like we are. Are we going to talk all day?”

We took the patrolman's things, and I hurried away to get rid of them while Rico went to fill our jugs.

At the well casing, I dropped in the gun, the spray, and the club.
The radio in my hand was all that was left. I hesitated. What if water didn't help, and the man still needed to get out? Were we going to let him die? I hurried back, and hid the small radio just before I got to Rico.

The patrolman was up on one elbow, looking around, blinking his eyes as Rico poured water down his broad forehead. His nameplate said
TORRES
. “Who are you?” was the first thing he said.

“We got abandoned by our pollero,” Rico said. “We're trying to climb out.”

Suddenly the policeman realized that his gun was missing, his radio and all the rest. “What have you done?”

“Nothing,” Rico said.

“Don't lie to me. Where are my things?”

“Down a pipe,” I said. “Way, way down.”

“Why, why would you do that?” His voice was desperate, strangled.

Rico sort of laughed. “I suppose you were going to let us go?”

“Under the circumstances, yes.”

“What circumstances?”

“Look at the back of my head, but don't touch.”

We looked. A sharp piece of rock was sticking out of his skull. The hair around it was all matted with blood. Some blood had run down his neck and between his shoulders.

“Ayeee,” I said, looking at the thin sharp rock. “What's that doing there?”

“I was in a gun fight. There were rocks and boulders all around
us. They sprayed lots of fire off the rocks. This splinter got me in the back of my head.”

“Where was this gun battle?” Rico demanded.

“At the mouth of the canyon.”

“You want us to pull the rock out?” I asked.

“Don't touch it! You could kill me if you try to pull it out.”

“Should we wrap something around it then, so it won't fall out?”

“That might push it in deeper. Just leave it alone.”

Torres checked his watch. “I wasn't unconscious long. My partner and I were attacked by drug smugglers.”

Rico gave me a nudge. “Let's get out of here, before his partner comes.”

“He's dead,” the patrolman said with a grimace. “We were outgunned. They've got an assault rifle.”

Rico and I exchanged glances. Was it Morales and his mules that Torres had run into at the mouth of this canyon, after their siesta? Was that possible?

“How come you didn't radio for help when you were attacked?” Rico asked.

“No reception. I was trying to climb out of here when I blacked out. There's a trail close by. Higher up, I could get reception. Tell me, please, where you put the radio.”

“We already told you,” Rico said. “It's way down at the bottom of a pipe.”

“God help me,” Torres said. “They've cut me off from my vehicle, and they're tracking me right now.”

I looked down the canyon, in a panic I would see Jarra, Morales, or both. “How do you know that?”

“Soon as the gunfire let up, I scrambled around to where I could see. It was drug runners, all right. I saw them put their bales on their backs and take off. Two stayed behind. They know I would have a radio on me. They're guessing I haven't gotten through yet, on account of the terrain. One of those two has the assault rifle. I saw them starting after me.”

“If they were following you,” Rico scoffed, “they would have been here by now.”

“They're afraid of ambush, moving slow. I beg you, please, they might be here any minute.”

“I've got the radio,” I admitted.

T
HE PATROLMAN KNEW EXACTLY
where we were—Baboquivari Canyon. Even better, he knew a way out. Nearby was a pack trail that the Indians used to visit Baboquivari Peak, their sacred mountain.

Above us, there would be no more water, Torres said. We drank hastily, filled our jugs, and got going. The trail climbed up and to the south, with many switchbacks, toward a high ridge. The patrolman stopped at every other switchback to catch his breath and look below.

Twenty minutes up, we had to take a longer break and drink some water. “I don't see anybody down there,” Rico said. “Maybe you were wrong about them coming after you. Maybe they turned back.”

“Hope so.” Torres tried his radio, with no luck. “Got to get higher,” he said. “Soon as I get through, they'll send a helicopter.”

“What will happen to us?” I asked.

“You come with me.”

“To be deported?”

“Maybe not. Sometimes, believe it or not, we turn people loose.”

“You don't really know what they'll do to us, do you,” Rico said, his voice full of anger.

“You're right, I can't say for sure. It's not my decision.”

“How can you sleep at night?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, how can you work against your own people?”

“Rico,” I said. “Stop it.”

“Seriously,” Rico insisted. “Tell us how you sleep at night.”

“I do a job that needs to be done,” Torres replied. “I enforce the law. Yes, we do all we can to slow the flood of illegals, but I also save many lives. And we catch some dangerous criminals. Listen, I can't stand here and argue with you. My head hurts bad, and my partner is dead.”

The air went out of Rico's anger. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm sorry about your partner. How did it happen?”

“We were on foot, away from our vehicle. I suspected that the drug smugglers had a trail through the foothills of these mountains. My partner paid for my curiosity with his life—we ran right into them. I have to get word out. These people have to be stopped.”

I pointed down the mountain. “Uh-oh.”

Far below, two men were winding their way up the switchbacks.
The one in the lead had an assault rifle in one hand, a water bottle in the other. I squinted. He had a green baseball cap worn backward. I even saw a glint of purple. “Jarra,” I said.

Torres rose unsteadily to his feet. “Who's he?”

Rico was glaring at me. “One of the coyotes who abandoned us,” I said unconvincingly.

“If they've got an automatic weapon like that, you two haven't told me the truth. You weren't simply mojados. You were with them?”

“They're gaining on us,” Rico said. “Some other time, we'll tell you our life story.”

We climbed as fast as we could, which wasn't very fast. The trail was the steepest yet. There was nothing above us but switchbacks zigzagging into the sky. It was around five-thirty, and the heat hadn't broken. My lungs were burning, my legs felt like rubber. I felt faint, like I might fall over and tumble down the mountain. I wondered how long Torres could hang on. He was ahead of me, and he looked bad. He might black out again any moment. He might drop dead.

I looked over my shoulder. Jarra and the other—one of the mules—were getting closer. Without doubt, they had recognized Rico and me. Jarra had as much reason to hunt us as he did the patrolman. That assault rifle…Jarra and the boss must have switched weapons before Morales took off with the rest of the mules.

By the grace of God, we reached the top of the switchbacks. We were on the ridge and Torres had his radio out. I looked over the
edge. Jarra and the mule were about five hundred feet below us. “There's no time to get a helicopter,” I said.

“And no place for it to land,” Rico added. It was true. The face of the ridge was steep and strewn with rubble.

Torres was stumbling along the trail, talking into his radio, telling them to answer. I knelt down and shoved a rock over the edge, twice as big as a soccer ball. Rico and I watched it bounce down the slope, faster and faster, straight at Jarra and the mule. Just before it reached them, it exploded into pieces that went flying in all directions. In the nick of time, they flattened themselves, or else their heads would have been taken off. “You go ahead with the policeman,” I said. “I'll stay back and hold them off.”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure!” I yelled. “Go!”

I crawled to the edge on my hands and knees, and I peeked over. Jarra was picking himself up, and so was the mule. I started another rock rolling, this one bigger than the first, and watched it bound in huge leaps straight down on them. Unfortunately, it didn't break apart. It bounced twenty feet over their heads, but it had loosened other rocks on its way down, which made them scramble for their lives.

I had them pretty well pinned down. They might think they were out of sight, behind some small boulders, but I could see their legs sticking out. It wasn't going to be easy for them to outflank me. The slope on either side of the trail was too steep for walking. They had to use the switchbacks to come up or to go back down. Either
way, they'd be exposed as soon as they stood up.

They knew I had them nailed down. Time dragged. They were waiting me out. They thought I would quit, and keep going up the trail, and then they would catch up.

Twenty minutes might have gone by before they showed themselves. Maybe they thought I had left. I had a beauty of a rock ready for them, practically a boulder. Like a beetle rolling a ball of dung, I had worked it close to the edge. When they made their move, I made mine. I braced and shoved and kicked with both legs, and the rock tipped over the edge.

After bouncing four times, this one exploded, and it did some damage. Not to Jarra, but to the mule. A piece of rock sent him flying. Jarra got off a burst of bullets, shooting wild. He couldn't see me, but I could see him. The mule was dragging one leg as he retreated down the trail.

After that it was just me and Jarra. He kept playing the waiting game, but I wasn't going anywhere, not until I heard that helicopter. The heat was starting to let up, and I had water.

At last Jarra made another move. He must have thought I was gone for good. I wouldn't have rolled another rock if he'd gone back down the trail, but he tried running up it. “Today's butcher is tomorrow's beef,” I muttered as I let a good one fly. Jarra had to go flying, too, behind another boulder.

What's taking the helicopter so long? I wondered. Just then I heard it. The sound came from behind me, from over the mountain, not from the Indian reservation. From Tucson, I guessed. I
could see the helicopter coming down—it landed out of sight. I took off along the trail fast as I could. I had to hope that down below, Jarra wouldn't have heard the helicopter, would think I still had him pinned down.

When I got there, there was no helicopter and no patrolman. There was only Rico. “What happened?” I panted.

“They got Torres, then they took off.”

“Was he okay?”

“I don't know. He was unconscious.”

“Had he told them about us?”

“Never got to it. He'd just said into his radio where he was when he blacked out.”

“What did you tell the rescue people?”

“They didn't know I was here. I watched from behind a rock.”

“Are you crazy, Rico? Jarra's coming! You could have gotten away!”

“I thought about it, but they wouldn't have waited for you. What about Jarra? Are those two still after us?”

“I hit the mule—he turned back. I'm not sure about Jarra. I have a feeling he isn't going to quit.”

“Let's go, then!”

The trail kept climbing the spine of the ridge. It was evening, and our shadows long, when the trail finally leveled out on a high bench. Baboquivari Peak was suddenly right there, right in front of us, bigger than all imagination, a tower filling up the sky with soaring faces of solid rock. Placed on top of it, the great statue of El
Cristo Rey would have looked like a tiny toy.

We stopped to breathe deep, and drank the last of our water. The sun was setting as we sat with the mountain at our backs and looked across the reservation and far into Mexico. “We're a long way from home,” I said.

At the mention of home, Rico had nothing to say.

“Rico, I still say you should have gotten into that helicopter. No matter what happened, you would have been safe from Jarra.”

“Speak of the devil,” Rico said, pointing below. “Here he comes.”