Texas Fierce (The Tylers of Texas 4)

“Maybe. But I’d be taking a risk. I need time to think about it,” Bull said.

“Fine. The burial will be tomorrow, after the grave is dug and the body prepared. You can decide then.”

“I can’t wait that long. I left one man alone at the ranch. There might be trouble. I need to get back.”

Ramón turned and spoke to Carlos’s sons. Again, they exchanged volleys of Spanish, speaking so rapidly that Bull could catch only a few words.

“They understand,” Ramón said, turning back to Bull. “They will go when you are ready. But I ask you, please come to my house now. Have some food and coffee while they say good-bye to my wife and get their things. Give us a chance to thank you for bringing Carlos home.”

It appeared the decision had been made.

Two men had come with a litter and taken Carlos’s body away. The crowd was clearing, people going back to bed as Bull locked the truck and followed Ramón to an adobe house just off the square. Only now did he notice that the man walked with a painful limp. It was probably the reason he was here instead of working in the States and sending money home. With his brother injured, Carlos might have been the family’s main source of income. Now even that would be gone.

The house was small but clean, with colorful blankets on the furniture and pictures of saints on the walls. Ramón?

?s wife, a tired-looking woman who would have been pretty in her youth, was warming beans and tortillas on a makeshift wood stove. She gave Bull a weary smile as she dished up the food and poured the coffee, which they drank black, sitting at the table. The two young men ate hastily, eager to be off on their adventure.

“Do they speak any English?” Bull asked Ramón.

“Some. They are shy about using it, but they can speak if they need to. Don’t worry. They are good boys. They will behave well. Yes?” He gave his two nephews a stern glance.

“Yes.” They nodded, answering in English. Bull could only hope this was a good idea and that he wouldn’t end up in jail.

He had just finished his coffee and risen from the table when there was a knock at the door. Ramón’s wife hurried to open it. Three men, who appeared to be in their thirties, stood on the stoop. One of them, who looked a little older than the others, stepped inside.

“We hear you take these boys to Texas,” he said in broken English. “You take us, too? We pay you. Four hundred dollars each.”

Twelve hundred dollars! How much feed, fencing wire, and gasoline would that buy? He could even pay the phone bill. It was damned tempting. And damned risky.

“We lay down close in the back of your truck,” the man persisted. “You cover us—nobody will see. I tell you what—five hundred each. Half now and half when you take us to Big Spring. We know a rancher there. He will give us work.”

Fifteen hundred dollars. And Big Spring wasn’t that far out of the way. Still, he’d be smart to think twice. There’d be hell to pay if he got caught.

“Escuche,” the man said. “Listen—these two muchachos—it is their first time. They can get lost. They can get caught by the migra. We know the way to cross the river. We can keep them safe.”

A glance at Ramón’s worried expression was enough to tip the balance. True—the boys would be safer, and the whole plan had a better chance if the older, experienced men were along to guide the younger ones. And the idea of returning home with money for the cash-strapped ranch sweetened the temptation.

Bull nodded. “Fine. Get your things. We leave in a few minutes.”

The man grinned. “We have everything, señor. Even the money. Vámonos!”

* * *

For Bull, the next hours crawled with gut-clenching tension. He drove to the border with four men riding in the truck bed and the older one sitting up front to give him directions. A quarter mile short of the border, he let them out in Ciudad Acuña, drove across the bridge to Del Rio, and passed through the border without a problem. From there he followed a hastily sketched map to a wooded park in the older, Hispanic section of the town and waited in a nervous sweat. What if he’d misunderstood the directions to the meeting place? What if the men had met with an accident or been picked up by the border patrol?

An eternity seemed to pass before his passengers showed up, damp and laughing. They piled into the pickup, fitting lengthwise, like cordwood, in the bed. Bull covered them with a tarp and piled the mattress from the bunkhouse on top of them. The ride would be hellishly uncomfortable until they put a safe distance between the truck and the border, but the men accepted the conditions cheerfully.

It was almost dawn when Bull let the three men off at the gate of a ranch outside of Big Spring. They gave him the balance of the money and shook his hand.

“Others want to come north,” the oldest man told him. “Any time you want, they pay you. Some coyotes are bad. They take money, then rob my people and leave them, even kill them. But you are a good coyote. They can trust you.”

The words, meant as a compliment, weighed on Bull as he drove the rest of the way to the ranch with Carlos’s two sons. What he’d just done had been easy money, and it would be even easier the next time. One run every couple of weeks, with no free rides, would go a long way toward supporting the ranch until they could get the cattle operation paying again.

But what if he got caught and went to jail?

You are a good coyote.

Was he? That remained to be seen.