The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [183]
“Aim for the heart.”
“I said shut up!”
She was marched briskly past the wall, and back down the long courtyard where she had entered the prison. Faces pressed to the bars in the windows again, but the prisoners said nothing. She twisted and looked over her shoulder.
They passed a stained, punctured adobe wall.
“Señores,” she said. “Isn’t that where the firing squad —”
“Quiet.”
At the far end, in painful light, she saw others gathered, and a black wagon pulled up and blocked off the opening. It was drawn by a large white horse.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Keep moving.”
The crowd was made up of soldiers, Rurales, police. They stared at her as she approached. All of them had heard of her, read the newspapers. They pressed in to get a look. Her guards pushed them aside and shoved her through the narrow gap in their hot bodies. To the back of the wagon. Where Tomás waited.
“Father!” she cried.
His left eye was blackened and swollen, and a slim crust of blood was stuck to his chin. He was filthy, his shirt half-untucked, and his hair stood straight up in the back. When she first saw him, he was slumped against the doors of the wagon, his eyes closed, and his face gray. He heard her voice and stood tall—taller than all the guards. He smiled.
“Teresita,” he called.
She rushed to him and laid her head against his chest.
He rubbed his chin on the top of her head.
“Did they hurt you?” he asked.
“No. I was spared.”
“You are thin,” he said.
“I have a little fever,” she replied.
She leaned back and peered up at his battered face.
“And you, Father? Have they hurt you?”
“I,” he said. Then, “I fell against a door, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”
She stretched up and kissed his cheek.
“Liar,” she said.
“Back,” Pepe said, opening the doors of the wagon. He allowed them to put their hands in front, then he relocked their shackles. He grabbed their elbows and roughly helped them climb the metal step. Once they were seated inside, he slammed the doors and locked them.
“Where are we going?” Tomás demanded, but no one answered him.
The whip cracked. The horse lurched forward. They fell against each other and struggled to stay upright as the wagon wobbled away from the prison.
“Are you afraid?” he asked.
“I am.”
“Me too.”
“Oh, Father.”
“Is dying bad?”
“Not as bad as you think.”
“But the bullets,” he said.
She shook.
“That frightens me,” she said.
“Well, girl, at least bullets are fast.”
The wagon rattled and banged over the cobbles in the street. Mounted soldiers spread out before and behind it. Guaymas was quiet that morning—the sea breeze that they had been denied in the prison blew down the alleys, carrying with it the smell of salt. Teresita pressed her face to the bars to smell it until a tomato hit the side of the wagon and sprayed her cheek with juice.
People along the way peered in at her, whispered to her, hissed. “Witch,” one woman said. Men laughed. Two horsemen rode along beside the wagon, and they pushed people back with the toes of their boots.
“And so we die,” Tomás said.
From the street: “Viva la Santa de Cabora!” Followed by the sounds of a scuffle.
Teresita took his fingers in hers.
“Be brave,” he said.
“I will.”
They passed down an alley, broke out into a sunny boulevard.
“You say death is not so bad?” he asked.
“No, not so bad, Papá. Better than prison.”
He nodded.
She leaned her head against his shoulder.
“They might not shoot us,” he said. “They might hang us!” He had hoped to be more positive, but being executed was a terrible affront to him. He could not contain his outrage. These fools would forever think themselves his equals, or worse, his superiors. He wanted to kick somebody. “Cabrones!” he said.
“I have had bad dreams about the noose,” she whispered.
How could he comfort her?
“Oh,” he finally said, “the noose isn’t so bad. It breaks your neck if they do it right. You’ll probably never feel it.”
“Why, thank you, Father. That’s the best news any girl could ask for!”
They laughed, for neither of them would weep.
Teresita had never seen a train,