Crossing the Wire by Will Hobbs Page A

won’t have trouble with the Border Patrol tonight.”
    â€œI’m happy to hear you say that, but talking about bulls is not the same as facing them in the ring.”
    â€œThat was one of my father’s sayings!”
    â€œYour father was a wise man.”
    For comfort, I turned my face to the late sun. High above, the vultures were wheeling in circles.
    â€œThose vultures are Mexicans,” Miguel said. “Migratory workers, indocumentados. Yet no one throws them in the zoo for lack of documents. Well, I’m afraid it’s time for us to get going. Even the best horse needs to be spurred. Did your father used to say that one?”
    â€œNo, but how about this: ‘Once mounted on a horse, one must hang on when he bucks.’”
    â€œGood advice. Keep it in mind, Victor.”

14
You’ll Need These
    A T DUSK WE BEGAN the crossing of the valley. Keeping low as quail, we threaded our way through prickly pear and yuccas. Miguel began to limp faster on his bad knee, keeping the lights of Apache on his left. Close on his heels, I picked up a shoeful of cactus needles but didn’t say anything.
    Up ahead, there were cars on the highway, not many, but sometimes they came in bunches. When we got close, Miguel hid me in the brush, then bellied up to the shoulder of the road. He crossed first while I waited. When Miguel’s whistle finally came, I scrambled up the shoulder and darted across. After days on dirt, rock, and sand, the pavement under my feet felt strange.
    I ran into the cover of the scrub on the far side of the highway. “Stay down,” I heard Miguel call. Cars were coming from both directions. At last there was nothing but quiet, and Miguel whistled again. I found him and we crouched together in the brush.
    â€œIt’s really dark,” I said. I was shivering, and not just from the cold. “Not much moonlight is getting through those clouds.”
    â€œThe clouds are thin,” he scoffed. “Plenty of light.”
    â€œIt seems farther to the mountains than it did before,” I said. I couldn’t help it, I was trembling. “Are you sure there isn’t another way?”
    â€œThere are hundreds. You could cross at Naco, and try to find the Americans in Bisbee who hide people in their homes and sometimes even drive them to Tucson or Phoenix. You could cross into the Huachuca Mountains, the Patagonias, or the Pajaritos. You could try Santa Cruz Valley, the Altar Valley, the Indian reservation, the Organ Pipe cactus park, the Cabeza Prieta—”
    â€œEnough,” I said. “I’m sorry I questioned you. We wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think this was best.”
    â€œOnly four more miles and we’ll be in those mountains, compadre.”
    â€œI just wish it wasn’t so dark.”
    Seconds later, we came to a dirt road parallel to the highway. Miguel whispered instructions in my ear. I crossed first. Miguel, walking backward, erased our tracks with a small piece of brush.
    With that we headed into the open, the Chiricahua Mountains four miles away. The valley floor was mostly grasses sprinkled with bushes and ocotillo—no places to hide as far as I could see. I felt safe as a caterpillar crawling through a yard full of chickens. What about the heat cameras and all the other Migra tricks? Miguel went as fast as he could on his stick, wincing with the pain butshowing none of the fear I still couldn’t shake.
    Beyond the clouds, there were stars, like candles burning. The idea of the candles helped. I could see my mother in the village church, lighting a candle for me in front of the Lady. I saw my family sitting around the table, Chuy making one of his chango faces. He really did look like a little monkey.
    The land began to rise as we started up a plain of gravel. The bushes were knee-high—still no cover. As I soon discovered, Miguel had a plan all along. He’d been marching toward a