La
Frontera
By Mark Miner
Part
3
Another engine, two more headlights
careening up the wash. A
chrome-encrusted H2 pulled up near the Blazer, and two men got out. Who's
that? arguing, gesticulating, I don't
care, we said alone, man, more arguing, even pleading. An orange tongue lacerated the night, and the
bark of the automatic echoed through the wash.
Jorge fell on the blond sand.
Sharp words, the ember flared. Another
lance of flame, and one more. The ember
died on the sand next to the reddened Steelers logo. Activity, doors opening and closing, big
trash bags, some smaller parcels, emptying the Blazer.
Juan and Ramón really felt sick now. The glorious trek to freedom paled in the
wash of blood. Their friends had lost
their freedom, and now Jorge, his life.
Ramón quietly vomited bile onto a cholla.
At least the Blazer was there. That would get them far away from this valley
of the shadow of death. The Hummer
ignited its lights and engine and backed away, then stopped. One man climbed out, ran over to the Blazer,
unfastened the gas can from the tailgate, and hoisted the bodies into the cargo
bay.
Juan sobbed softly as their friend
crackled in the flames of their ticket out of hell.
Juan and Ramón turned their backs on
the embers. They could not sleep
here. Onward, northward, to whatever
future might lie ahead. It didn't seem
to matter as much now, Ramón thought.
They were alone, but alive. Every
tired muscle, every blister inside his used Keds, every crack in his lips, it felt alive!
They found a dirt track and traveled
northeast along it for the remainder of the night. Travel was slower as their bodies gave up
energy reserves to fatigue and mental shock.
By the time the sky turned from ink to steel they had covered another
three miles.
In the pre-dawn light they heard
another engine. Screened by cactus and
mesquite, they watched a red late-model Ford pickup pass by. They could hear it for another few minutes,
then it stopped.
The jagged terrain of the moonrock
hill tore at their shoes and twisted their feet as they sought a higher vantage
point. They crouched under a spreading
palo verde as an unmanned surveillance aircraft flew above them.
The truck had stopped on a little
spur road, and Juan crossed himself as three men with guns got out. Ramón tapped his shoulder and pointed to the
vests. "Cazadores" hunters, he whispered. The men fanned out and began working the
hills in the other direction, giving Ramón an eerie déja-vu of the patrolmen
from yesterday. Had it only been
yesterday? No, two days, perhaps. He was tired.
The viajeros waited until the men disappeared around a bend in the
wash. Swiftly descending from their
perch, they infiltrated the cooler and removed three of the six sandwiches and
took half of the water bottles. They had
no wish to harm these men, but needed the sustenance.
Gravel crunched behind them. Juan turned slowly, not surprised to find a
shotgun pointed at his chest.
"Tenemos
hambre, señor" we are hungry, sir.
"Estan
narcocorridos?" are
you drug runnerers?
The man was young and spoke with a
gringo accent, but Ramón had hope, he could talk Spanish.
No sir, only workers
I believe it. How many days have you traveled?
"Dos"
Juan launched into an explanation of
their plight, of Alejandro's capture, of Jorge's death (the man blanched at matado) and of their discouragement and
despair. The man thought for a moment
and replied:
If
I turn you in, I will be obeying the law.
You mean no harm, but you are breaking the law. If I help you, I will be assisting in the
breaking of the law. But you are men,
fellow creatures under God, and answerable to him, not me. Take the food and go.
The man grabbed the canteen he had
forgotten on the tailgate and walked into the desert.
"Vaya con Dios" he cried
over his shoulder. Go with God.
Juan and Ramón stared after
him. Tucking the water and sandwiches
into their rucksack, they set out again, on the coyote trail, to find work and
a new life in a land of opportunity under the rule of law.
