When the trail cut out of the creek bed and into the foothills, Riffey almost stopped, but didn’t. Just a little further, five minutes more, he thought. If he didn’t see them by then, he would walk downriver to Candelaria and maybe get a ride into Presidio.
Five minutes later he stopped to look up the mountainside one last time before leaving. He wiped sweat from his face and started to turn when the buzzard caught his attention.
It glided in a circle, and straight below it was a Border Patrol Agent lying motionless on the rocks. “Oh man,” Riffey said, and started up the mountain.
Fifteen minutes later, he reached the Agent, whose name read Flores on his uniform shirt. Riffey knelt beside Raymond and said, “Mister? Agent Flores?” Putting his fingers to the man’s neck, Riffey found a faint pulse.
He pulled on the black, curling wire under Raymond’s body to find the end with the mike, but it was ripped off, evidently in the man’s fall. “What now?” Riffey whispered to himself.
Raymond stirred, saying in a weak voice, “Heart attack. Help…”
Riffey could only think of one thing to do: Get the man to his vehicle. He grabbed Raymond’s wrists and pulled him to a sitting position, then worked and struggled until he got the Agent across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry.
Lord, this man’s heavy. Riffey thought, and hoped he could make it down the mountainside without falling and killing them both.
Footing was treacherous in a dozen places because of the loose talus, but he went slowly, being as careful as he could, and forty minutes later reached the Border Patrol Tahoe. He put Raymond down in the vehicle’s shadow. Riffey’s legs quivered so bad he could barely stand, and there was not enough air in Texas to fill his lungs after the descent.
Raymond stirred and fumbled with his cell phone, then passed out again. Riffey picked up the cell and saw no service. He put the phone in Raymond’s pocket, then searched through the Agent’s pockets until he found the vehicle keys.
He opened the cab, put the key in the ignition and turned it on as he reached for the radio mike. “Hello, anybody! I’ve got a Border Patrolman down here! He’s had a heart attack. You need to send some help out here fast!”
There was the pop of static and a voice came on, “Where are you located?”
“The mouth of Capote Creek, up by Candelaria. You people need to hurry!”
“We are, sir. Do you know the Agent’s name?”
“It says Flores on his shirt. He’s not conscious right now, so he can’t tell me the rest.”
“And what is your name, sir?”
“I’ll stay with him until y’all get here, but hurry, okay?”
“What is your name, sir?”
Riffey turned off the key. The last thing he was going to do was give them his name, and then have to explain everything to them. No sir.
Raymond groaned. Riffey remembered something, some bit of information about heart attacks, and he tore through the Tahoe until he found the first aid kit. Inside the kit was what he needed: Aspirins. He took one out, along with a full Camelbak on the passenger’s seat, and fed the pill to Raymond while he gave him water. Raymond never opened his eyes but swallowed without choking.
“I hope it works, mister.” Riffey said. He sat beside the semi-conscious Agent and fed him sips of water for the next twenty minutes, then he heard the wop-wop-wop of a helicopter coming fast. He lay Raymond’s head down on the sand and said, “Good luck,” and slipped into the deepest area of salt cedars and river cane he saw.
Riffey was far enough away from the clearing that the landing helicopter whipped the brush around him but did not reveal his position. He watched the pilot and another Agent who carried a large backpack embossed with a red cross, exit the chopper and hurry to Raymond.
They worked smooth and fast, putting in IVs, giving him shots, and talking to him as they did. Riffey saw Raymond’s hand lift from the ground, then one leg so that the knee was elevated. Good, Riffey thought.
The two Agents carried Raymond to the chopper and put him in the passenger seat. The pilot gave the other Agent a thumbs-up and lifted into the air to speed away.
The Agent on the ground watched the helicopter for a good two minutes, then he looked at the area around the Tahoe. Riffey realized with a start that the Agent saw his tracks. The Agent looked in his direction, but Riffey knew he was too well hidden to actually see. The Agent knew where he was, no doubt about it.
The Agent stared his way for another ten seconds. Then he did a slow salute.
Riffey felt his eyes sting.
The Agent turned his back to Riffey and climbed into the Tahoe, spinning dirt as he drove away, going downriver.
When Riffey couldn’t hear the Tahoe anymore, he rose from the brush and started in the same direction. As he walked, Riffey realized his clothes finally did not stink of chlorine.
He reached the paved surface of Farm Road 170 and walked to Candelaria, where everyone had gone inside their homes. Border Patrol helicopters zooming close to the ground, and Border Patrol vehicles racing down the roads, that was notice enough for the people of Candelaria to get inside. No one even opened the shades to peek out at him. Riffey continued on the road, knowing it was forty-five or fifty miles to Presidio.