Crossing the Wire by Will Hobbs Page B

snaking line of mesquite bushes that turned out to mark the bank of a dry streambed cutting through the valley from the mountains. When we dropped ten or more feet to the bottom of the arroyo, I felt a lot safer.
    We followed the twists and turns of the wash until we came to a sharp corner dammed by logs and rocks. We had no choice but to climb out. Miguel led the way up. He crawled out on his knees so as not to attract attention, and I did the same.
    The clouds had parted in front of the moon. It was more than half full, and shining much too bright. “We’ll drop back in soon as we can,” Miguel whispered. He pointed to the sprinklings of oak and juniper trees on higher ground, on the lap of the mountains. “Once we get inside those, we’re invisible.”
    His words were still hanging in the air. I happened to be looking back toward the highway when the headlights of a vehicle suddenly came on between the highway and us. They were pointed in our direction. “Miguel,” I yelped.
    â€œDon’t like the looks of that,” Miguel muttered. “Their instruments might be onto us. Keep low.”
    â€œWe’ve been so careful. It must be someone else they’re after.”
    The headlights began to move. I could see the shape of the vehicle. “Perrera,” I said, as it gained more and more speed, heading our way.
    â€œBad luck,” Miguel grunted, and took off hobbling on his stick. Half a minute later, he found a way back down into the dry creekbed. On my way over the steep embankment, I slipped and banged my arm. No matter. I caught up with him, and that was all that counted.
    It was slow going in the wash, but we would be spotted if we climbed out. We made some progress, but then I thought I heard the perrera. We stopped and listened. “Holy mother of God!” I said. The dog wagon was over our left shoulders and not very far behind.
    Miguel clapped me on the shoulder. “You have the advantage, Victor. They’re wearing heavy body armor. You can run faster than they can.”
    We heard their truck stopping, then the sound of a slamming door. We looked back and saw a patrolman at the top of the bank, about a hundred yards behind us. The Migra had his gun drawn, and was on his way down to the bottom of the arroyo. Where were the clouds when we needed them?
    â€œHe’ll find our footprints,” I whispered.
    â€œFollow quietly,” Miguel whispered back.
    We’d barely gotten started when a second patrolman appeared at the top of the bank, much closer. No question he had seen us. Miguel tried to run on the walking stick. The patrolman yelled for us to stop and give ourselves up.
    Miguel took off, desperately fast. All I knew was, this couldn’t be the end. I picked my way through the rubble along the rocky floor of the wash. I caught up as Miguel was climbing out on the bank opposite the two Border Patrol.
    We lost track of them, but they hadn’t lost track of us. Just when I thought they had decided to let us go, their vehicle fired up and started following along the other side of the arroyo. As long as there was no way for them to cross, we were going to be okay. Ahead, the oaks and junipers grew thicker, taller. Just beyond them, the steep, brushy slopes offered good cover. Hope began to run strong. The mountains were close, so close. Suddenly mindless of Miguel, I sprinted ahead.
    A sharp cry came from behind. Miguel was down.
    I ran back to him. “I’ll be okay in a minute,” he said. “Lie flat next to me in these rocks. Let’s hope they can’t get across.”
    â€œLook, thick clouds covering the moon!”
    Suddenly it was a whole lot darker, and we had hope again.
    I waited on my belly. The engine sounded different, muffled. “They’re in the bottom of the wash,” Miguel said. “They found a place to get across.”
    The Border Patrol truck climbed out of the arroyo, not a hundred yards