She knew the night could be dangerous. There were snakes, scorpions, coyotes, wild pigs, and cattle roaming the dark. There were washes and deep gullies. And there were beasts in human form who wouldn’t think twice about harming a young girl. But she was always alert and careful, even going so far as to tuck her hair under a cap, making her look more like a boy.
So, should she go tonight? After some thought, Susan decided against it. With Ferg still awake, she might be spotted. And she hadn’t arranged the pillows in her bed before going out to sit on the porch. She couldn’t chance it. One mistake and she’d be a prisoner in the house for the rest of the long visit.
Tomorrow, then. Or the next night. With a sigh, Susan bade a silent farewell to the moon and stars and slipped back into the house.
* * *
A few miles north of the border, Bull stopped for gas. When he checked on Carlos, he saw that the old man had passed away.
Gently he tugged the blanket over the lifeless face. At least his suffering was over. He looked peaceful now, almost happy, as if he’d known that he was going home to his loved ones.
Bull bought some coffee to go in Del Rio and drove across the Del Rio International Bridge to Ciudad Acuña. By now it was after eleven. The Mexican border station was quiet. The guard blinked himself awake, checked Bull’s driver’s license, and let him pass.
An hour later, on a two-lane asphalt road crossed by wandering cows and goats, he reached the outskirts of Rio Seco. The village, its name meaning “dry river,” was little more than a cluster of tile-roofed adobe houses around a public square with two iron benches, a well, and a single palm tree. On one side was a church that looked like something out of an old Western movie. The only place showing any sign of life was the local cantina across from the church. One side was open to the plaza. Bull parked the truck and climbed out.
Four men, of varying ages, were sitting at a table drinking beer and playing cards. Mariachi music blasted from a small portable radio. The bartender looked up as Bull approached the rough plank bar.
“En que puedo servirle, señor?” he asked. “Quiere una cervesa?”
Bull surmised that the man had asked if he wanted a beer. He struggled with his high school Spanish. “No, gracias.” He pointed to his truck. “Aquí tengo Carlos Ortega. El es . . . muerto.”
The men at the table were staring at him. One of them, who appeared to be the oldest, rose to his feet. “I speak English,” he said. “Did you say that Carlos Ortega, my brother, is dead?”
Bull nodded, relieved that he wouldn’t have to depend on his weak command of the language. “My friend and I found him dying. He asked me to bring him here. I’m sorry. He was a good man.”
“You knew him?”
“He worked for our ranch as a cook.”
The man extended his hand. He was a younger, leaner version of Carlos. His English, though spoken with an accent, was fluent, as if he might have worked for some years in the United States. “Ramón Ortega a su servicio. Did you say my brother’s body is in your truck?”
Bull accepted the handshake. “Yes. He wanted me to bring him home. He died on the way here.”
Ramón glanced toward a younger man at the table, who sprang to his feet and hurried off. “Tell me how he died. Was it an accident?”
“No.” Bull explained what had happened.
Ramón nodded, a sadness in his intense brown eyes. “Ay, that beautiful car. He drove it here once, so proud. And now he has died for it. What about the law? Did they catch the men?”
Bull shook his head. “The sheriff won’t do anything to help.”
Ramón’s expression hardened. “Please, I want to see my brother now.”
Bull opened the tailgate and pulled the mattress out. Ramón lifted the blanket, gazed down at Carlos for a moment, and covered his face again. By then people were spilling into the plaza, a few still getting into their clothes. Some of the older women were wailing.
Two young men, about Bull’s age, raced ahead of the others. Pulling Ramón aside, they exchanged bursts of rapid-fire Spanish. Ramón turned back to Bull.
“Joaquin and Raul—they are Carlos’s sons,” Ramón said. “After their mother died they grew up in my home. They are like my own children. They want to go back to Texas with you and find those evil men. They want justice for their father.”
“But those men could have left the state by now. They could be anywhere,” Bull argued.
“Joaquin and Raul know that. But there is no honor in staying here and doing nothing. If you take them, they will work to pay you back. They are hard workers.”
Bull weighed what he’d just heard. Smuggling two Mexicans back to Texas would be illegal as hell. But Lord knows, he could use the free labor, and he owed it to Carlos to help.
“What about the border?” he asked. “How would I get them through?”
“Easy. Before the border, you let them out. They cut around and cross the river. You pick them up on the other side. The coyotes do it all the time.” Ramón used the common term for people who dealt in smuggling Mexicans. “So what do you say?”