off Elizabeth’s head. The loose braid tucked under it came apart and long hair fell out. Elizabeth made a swipe for the scarf, but the girl ran away, laughing at her.
Near the trail, a man approached the horses, clapping his hands and whistling to the animals. He seemed displeased to see strangers in the camp. His face hardened as the four riders pulled to a stop.
“ Buenas tardes, señor ,” Jake said. “We’re not here to make trouble. We are just passing through.”
“You la policía ?” the man asked.
Jake and Fred both laughed. “No, no,” Jake said. “We are not police.”
The man grinned. “Then I guess you must be running from them. Buenas tardes! I am Laszlo. Please don’t mind the children, señor—they were just playing.”
Gus slid off his horse and said in Romani, “ Sastipe, sar sal? ” Hello, how are you?
Laszlo said, “You speak Romani?”
“A little. My grandmother’s Romani.” Gus stuck his hand out. “ May buchhov Gus Dukker.”
Laszlo stepped forward with a smile, a flash of white teeth in a swarthy face. He pumped Gus’s hand. “ Bor —you are one of us.”
Gus laughed. “Almost.”
Laszlo nodded to Elizabeth and translated for her and the others. “ Devlesa avilan —It is God who brought you here,” he said. “You are safe here. Like you, Comandante , we have no love for the police or the army or Diego and his death squads.”
“You know who we are, then?” Jake asked.
“ Sí . They are looking everywhere for three Rangers and a woman. Your enemies call you El Oso Amarillo , the yellow bear. When your hat came off and I saw your hair, then hers, I knew it was you.” He extended his hand. “Welcome, mi amigo , El Oso Amarillo. Tell me, why have the Rangers never talked to us? We Gypsies can find out things that might be helpful.” His face darkened. “Our allegiance is to ourselves, not to the government or to anyone else. But we will do you the courtesy of listening.”
Jake looked at him and blinked. Talking to Gypsies had never occurred to him. The Mexicans despised them. As a result, Gypsies stayed alert and had developed a talent for discovering facts and information others often missed. For them, it was a means of self-preservation.
“You’re right—we should have talked to you long before this,” Jake said. “But if all goes well, we won’t be needing your help. If it does not, then we’ll be back soon. That’s a promise.”
Laszlo clapped him on the shoulder and led them all toward a blue and yellow vardo, warning them about the soldiers on the roads. Although his vardo was small inside, it was divided into two rooms: the kitchen-living room and the sleeping quarters.
With the windows open, it was remarkably airy and cool inside and spotlessly clean.
A dark-haired woman with a baby on her hip stirred a blue-enameled pot on a small stove. With a smile, Laszlo introduced them all.
“Gracias, señora,” Jake said, nodding to Laszlo’s wife, Nadia. In English, he told Elizabeth, “On the way over, her husband said the road north is crawling with Mexican troops. He invited us to stay the night, said they’ll find a place for us. They know who we are.”
“Great,” Elizabeth said. “I’m so hungry, and she’s cooking something over there in that pot that smells heavenly.”
Humming to herself, Elizabeth sat down at the little folding table in the kitchen. Knees and shoulders touching, she, Jake, Laszlo, Nadia, and their two children all crowded together. Fred and Gus sat cross-legged on the floor, plates in their laps. Six adults and two children squeezed into the five-by-ten-foot space.
Nadia had fixed a cocido —a pinto, black, and garbanzo bean stew with chunks of rabbit, corn, potatoes, and any other vegetables she found in her kitchen. A flat, salty corn cake and a pitcher of wild-tasting goat’s milk finished off the menu.
“Delicious. I’ve never tasted goat’s milk before,” Elizabeth said, licking her lips.
Near the trail, a man approached the horses, clapping his hands and whistling to the animals. He seemed displeased to see strangers in the camp. His face hardened as the four riders pulled to a stop.
“ Buenas tardes, señor ,” Jake said. “We’re not here to make trouble. We are just passing through.”
“You la policía ?” the man asked.
Jake and Fred both laughed. “No, no,” Jake said. “We are not police.”
The man grinned. “Then I guess you must be running from them. Buenas tardes! I am Laszlo. Please don’t mind the children, señor—they were just playing.”
Gus slid off his horse and said in Romani, “ Sastipe, sar sal? ” Hello, how are you?
Laszlo said, “You speak Romani?”
“A little. My grandmother’s Romani.” Gus stuck his hand out. “ May buchhov Gus Dukker.”
Laszlo stepped forward with a smile, a flash of white teeth in a swarthy face. He pumped Gus’s hand. “ Bor —you are one of us.”
Gus laughed. “Almost.”
Laszlo nodded to Elizabeth and translated for her and the others. “ Devlesa avilan —It is God who brought you here,” he said. “You are safe here. Like you, Comandante , we have no love for the police or the army or Diego and his death squads.”
“You know who we are, then?” Jake asked.
“ Sí . They are looking everywhere for three Rangers and a woman. Your enemies call you El Oso Amarillo , the yellow bear. When your hat came off and I saw your hair, then hers, I knew it was you.” He extended his hand. “Welcome, mi amigo , El Oso Amarillo. Tell me, why have the Rangers never talked to us? We Gypsies can find out things that might be helpful.” His face darkened. “Our allegiance is to ourselves, not to the government or to anyone else. But we will do you the courtesy of listening.”
Jake looked at him and blinked. Talking to Gypsies had never occurred to him. The Mexicans despised them. As a result, Gypsies stayed alert and had developed a talent for discovering facts and information others often missed. For them, it was a means of self-preservation.
“You’re right—we should have talked to you long before this,” Jake said. “But if all goes well, we won’t be needing your help. If it does not, then we’ll be back soon. That’s a promise.”
Laszlo clapped him on the shoulder and led them all toward a blue and yellow vardo, warning them about the soldiers on the roads. Although his vardo was small inside, it was divided into two rooms: the kitchen-living room and the sleeping quarters.
With the windows open, it was remarkably airy and cool inside and spotlessly clean.
A dark-haired woman with a baby on her hip stirred a blue-enameled pot on a small stove. With a smile, Laszlo introduced them all.
“Gracias, señora,” Jake said, nodding to Laszlo’s wife, Nadia. In English, he told Elizabeth, “On the way over, her husband said the road north is crawling with Mexican troops. He invited us to stay the night, said they’ll find a place for us. They know who we are.”
“Great,” Elizabeth said. “I’m so hungry, and she’s cooking something over there in that pot that smells heavenly.”
Humming to herself, Elizabeth sat down at the little folding table in the kitchen. Knees and shoulders touching, she, Jake, Laszlo, Nadia, and their two children all crowded together. Fred and Gus sat cross-legged on the floor, plates in their laps. Six adults and two children squeezed into the five-by-ten-foot space.
Nadia had fixed a cocido —a pinto, black, and garbanzo bean stew with chunks of rabbit, corn, potatoes, and any other vegetables she found in her kitchen. A flat, salty corn cake and a pitcher of wild-tasting goat’s milk finished off the menu.
“Delicious. I’ve never tasted goat’s milk before,” Elizabeth said, licking her lips.
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