Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [124]
I glanced at Mourning. Tim didn’t appear offended by the way Mojas spoke of him; instead he studied the coyote coolly, a scientist observing a member of a lower and somewhat repulsive order. He seemed more alert now, although I noted that this reactions were still slow.
I asked, “Then what happens?”
“You stick close behind me. Canyon’s maybe twenty feet ahead. Case you lose me, stay put; I’ll find you. Keep low. Those scopes la migra’s got, they pick up every move you make. A guy told me we glow on them—yellow, like gold.” He laughed bitterly. “Gold. That’s a good one, ain’t it? ’Course in a way we are gold to you people. You can’t do without us.”
Mourning was still staring at Mojas. Now he asked, “Why do you say that?”
“Hey, the dummy can talk! I’m sayin’ it because it’s true. We go over that fence, we work your fields, take care of your kids, do any kind of shit work you throw at us. Or you send your goods down here to our maquiladores, we sent them back finished. Where’d you be without our cheap labor?”
“A damn sight closer to full employment for Americans.” Tim was showing some spirit, thank God.
“Shit, man, don’t give me that. What you people do, you build a goddamn fence to keep us out, hunt us down like dogs in the canyons, but you sure don’t make any fuss when one of us buses your table in some fancy L.A. restaurant.”
Mourning shrugged.
“Okay, you don’t want to believe it, that’s your business.”
We continued squatting there in silence. A cold wind whipped across the barren hillside, and I turned up my collar. Hy was pressing his hand to his arm, face pained. Bleeding again?
Suddenly there was a stir farther down the fence line to our left. Running footsteps and then the clang of metal as dark figures scaled the panels. Mojas stood, looked. Shook his head as he squatted again. “Damn fools. La migra’s got a guy right over there on horseback.”
“How can you see him?” I asked.
“You make this crossing as many times as I have, you know where to look, what to look for. Piece of good luck for us, though. Most nights they don’t have more than eight or nine agents out here. Guys who just went over, they’ll keep that one busy for a while. What we’re gonna do is go the other way down the fence toward Smuggler’s Gulch.”
He stood and began moving in a crouch, motioning for us to follow. When we got to the fence, we turned east. I brought up the tear, reaching out to touch the steel panels; they were icy and unyielding. My fingers felt scarcely warmer. I crossed my arms and hugged myself, tucking my hands against my sides.
“More activity behind us. More clashing of metal back where the others had crossed. I started to look over my shoulder, but lost my balance and almost fell on the uneven ground. After that I kept my eyes straight ahead, focused on Mourning’s shoulders.
The commotion behind us escalated. Feet slapped and stumbled on the other side of the fence now. I heard someone curse, someone else cry out. There was a thud and a child began to wail. The dam had burst; an unchecked stream of bodies spewed across the border and flooded the canyons. Propelled by fear, by need, by sheer recklessness, they surged forth and inundated the forbidden territory.
Mojas held up his hand and we stopped, squatted again. “Let’s give la migra a chance to get real busy.”
I looked at Hy; he was still pressing his wound. When he looked back at me, his smile was edged with pun. Mourning squatted to Hy’s right, myopic gaze unfocused. He might have been getting his fear under control or contemplating his own mortality or merely zoning out. There was no way to tell what he might be thinking, no way to tell how he’d handle himself once we made our move.
The commotion on the hillside was dying down. Someone shouted in the nearby canyon, the unintelligble words echoing as they rose. Mojas stood.
“It’s time.”
I shot to my feet, adrenaline pumping. Hy rose more slowly, grasping Mourning’s arm and helping him.