The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [186]
Tomás squared his shoulders. “Here it comes,” he said.
“I am no longer afraid,” Teresita replied.
“However,” Enríquez read, “due to the immense generosity of General Díaz and the Mexican government, the sentence of death will be forthwith commuted to expulsion.”
They stood there as the lieutenant folded his proclamation and tucked it inside his tunic.
“What did you say?” asked Teresita.
“Expulsion.”
“Expulsion?”
“Expulsion, indeed.”
“Enríquez, my good man,” said Tomás. “Is this a joke?”
Enríquez shrugged one shoulder.
“My dear Señor Urrea, it has occurred to me on more than one occasion, particularly since becoming embroiled in your lives,” he tipped his hat at Teresita, “that much of life is a joke.”
“Wait. We are being deported?” Tomás said.
The lieutenant gestured at the train.
“Mexico’s newest rail line is at your disposal. As you can see, it is a Santa Fe train. Mexico’s railroads are in partnership with the Santa Fe line, and this rolling stock has come to us from —”
“Wait!” Tomás said.
“Yes?”
“Exiled?”
“Not to return. I would consider that a good offer.”
“But my ranch!”
“Sorry.”
“But my wife, Loreto!”
“Perhaps she can join you.”
“But Gabriela!”
“Another wife?”
“His beloved,” Teresita offered.
“Ah! A complication. Perhaps she can join you as well.”
Tomás smacked himself on the forehead.
“Consider the alternative,” Enríquez suggested.
“We aren’t going to die?” Teresita asked.
Her fever had made her pale—her eyes burned in her white face like the eyes of a lunatic. She unnerved Lieutenant Enríquez.
“Señorita,” he said, “you will surely die one day, but this is not that day.”
She fell back against Tomás.
“Wait,” he shouted. “Wait! Instead of shooting us, you are taking us on a train trip?”
The lieutenant studied his own boots.
“So it seems,” he said.
Private García came back to them. He tapped Tomás on the arm.
“Sir?” he said. “I think the Saint has fainted.”
Sixty-one
THE SPIES WATCHED Teresita swoon and fall against her father. They counted the gun emplacements on the train cars. They noted the big tripod with the wicked bullet-spitter gun on the flatcar. A Pima rider named Martínez led them, two Yaquis and this skinny Yori boy who insisted he follow. They lay on their bellies in the weeds on a hill a half mile from the train. The boy said, “Let’s kill them now!” Martínez put his hand up. His blue bandana was carefully folded along the tops of his eyebrows. Runners were already going north, calling for warriors to come to the prison. But it was obvious to Martínez that there would be no assault on Guaymas, even though the Apaches wanted to set fire to one more Mexican city before they rested. No, the battle was going to be on the rail lines. They had to stop the train. They had to set Teresita free. They had to kill everybody. They ran, bent down, through scrub and berry bushes, cactus and hedionda, until they dropped into an arroyo where their horses waited. They had four of the best horses from Cabora—the Yori boy had brought them. Martínez sped down the arroyo and over its lip and into the redness of the desert without once looking back.
Enríquez ordered four soldiers to carry Teresita onto the empty train car at the front of the train. They were afraid to touch her at first. When they picked her up, one said: “See, boys, she is as light as straw!” Tomás hovered around her like a dragonfly as they moved down the empty aisle. They chose a random seat and laid her across it. She moaned. Her eyelids fluttered. One of the pustules on her neck broke, and ghastly yellow humors drained from it.
“Please,” Tomás said. “Bring me warm water and soap!”
Enríquez, who had followed, nodded at them.
They saluted and hurried away.
“Will she die?” Enríquez asked.
“She is strong, Lieutenant,” Tomás whispered. “So strong.”
“Well,” said the lieutenant, “you could pray for her.”
“I would have to learn how.”
“No one has to teach a father how to pray, Señor Urrea,” he replied. “Fathers and mothers