I finally got up. I was going to disable the location apps on my phone, those I was aware of that might help someone who was interested to know exactly where I was, but I realized that I hadn’t communicated with my children since Rainy and I left Aurora. I called Jenny, explained all that had happened and where we stood, and told her I needed Rainy’s blood type. She promised to get on it first thing in the morning. I asked her to call Annie and to let Stephen know what was up when he was back from driving cattle. I told her I loved her and to pass my love along to the others. Then I spent some time disabling the apps and turned the cell off. I thought I might buy a throwaway when I had an opportunity, just to be on the safe side.
I checked the old Winchester. It was a 30-30, model 94. Jocko had done a fine job of keeping it clean and oiled and in good working condition. Like a human being, every rifle is a little different from every other. You have to spend time getting to know it. I decided that first thing in the morning, I would head out somewhere away from civilization and acquaint myself with the peculiarities of this particular firearm, in the event that I needed to trust it and to trust my aim with it.
I slept fitfully and rose at first light. There was nothing in the parsonage, food-wise, so I showered and dressed, checked the pickup for any sign of explosives, and went to a convenience store/gas station called Cadiz Corners, where I bought coffee, a breakfast burrito, and the six boxes of Arm & Hammer baking soda stocked on the shelf. I wolfed down the burrito, sipped the coffee as I drove south out of town. I climbed the saddle in the Coronados and passed through Sulfur Springs, which was only just waking up. I spent a little time getting a further feel for the town, driving up and down the streets north of Sulfur Creek, then across the bridge to the south, in the area known as Gallina Town. Although they were separated by a creek no more than ten feet across and physically were not all that dissimilar, they were two very different communities. Except for the name Rosa’s Cantina, there was nothing north of the bridge that even hinted at a heritage that wasn’t white American. There were ceramic deer in some yards, just like in Minnesota. The wagon wheel motif seemed very popular. There was a dull consistency to everything. South of the bridge was almost like another country. The yard decorations were brightly colored—ceramic roosters and chimineas and bathtub Madonnas. Things looked a bit more run-down, maybe, but alive. Almost all the signage was in Spanish.
I kept driving. Outside Sulfur Springs, the road turned to dirt and gravel and began to climb. I followed it into an area wild with mesquite and prickly pear cacti. I came to a junction where a hard, narrow track cut to the right. The track snaked up into the desolate-looking mountains, where I could see an old structure high against a wall of rock.
I took the cutoff and climbed the switchbacks until I came to a flat area at the base of the wall. The structure I’d seen from below had probably been part of a transport system for a mine operation—water or maybe the ore itself—but it didn’t look as if it would carry the weight of a fly these days. The flat was strewn with old detritus from the enterprise. I remembered Michelle talking about how mining had been an important part of the heritage of Coronado County. I parked and got out. Looking back, I could see the narrow track I’d followed up from the main road, and not far beyond that the fence along the border. I could also see where that dark fence line ended a few miles to the west. I thought I remembered the minister telling me that along much of the border there was still nothing but barbed wire, which presented almost no barrier at all.
The mine entrance, a huge hole in the rock wall, looked to me like a dark, open mouth. A few yards in front of it, where tracks must have once run, sat an old ore car. Rusted piping lay tumbled on the ground around me like pickup sticks. A great piece of machinery that I thought might be a pump stood covered in cancerous-looking, orange splotches that, had I been in the Northwoods, I would have figured were lichen. In this alien environment, God alone knew what was feeding on that metal. To my right was a pile of creosoted railroad ties and to my left a mine building of some kind that had fallen in on itself. I walked to the mine entrance, which was framed by old wooden beams. Barbed wire had been loosely strung across the opening. A sign hung from the wire. A big skull and crossbones dominated the middle of the sign. The text, which ran above and below the skull, read: ABANDONED MINE. WARNING! DANGER! STAY OUT! STAY ALIVE! I could feel cool air on my face, a fine respite from the heat of the morning, which was, again, more intense than on the worst summer days in Minnesota.
I walked back to the truck, loaded half a dozen cartridges into the Winchester, took the six boxes of baking soda I’d purchased at the convenience store, and set them up on a flat rock fifty yards away. I returned to the truck and jacked the first cartridge into the chamber. I’ve been a hunter all my life, and the feel of the rifle stock against my shoulder was old and familiar. I sighted on the box farthest to the right and squeezed off a round. A chip exploded off the rock just to the side of the box. I levered in the next cartridge and adjusted my aim. When I fired, the box spun like a crazy ballerina and fell. I sighted on the next box, adjusting my aim just a hair. This time the box of baking soda flew straight back off the rock.
I sensed rather than heard someone behind me. I spun around. Sitting on the pile of railroad ties, watching me with great interest, was the old-timer from Rosa’s Cantina. He nodded to me, and the brim of his worn hat put his face in shadow for a moment. I walked to him. He didn’t seem at all inclined to get up to greet me but looked at the Winchester in my hands with great interest.
“Sylvester, right?” I said.
“That’ll do.”
“What are you doing here, Sylvester?”
“Right back at you, stranger.”
“Just a little sightseeing.”
“Kind of far afield from where most tourists go.”
“I’m a little more than a tourist.”
“Figured. Still looking for the boy?”
“Young man,” I said.
“When you’re my age, mister, they’re all boys.” His eyes shifted to the mine entrance. “Lots of old diggings just like this one in these mountains. Somebody puts something in there, good luck ever finding it.”
“You know where these old diggings are?”
“Been prospecting here since long before you were born. I know them all.”
He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, drew one out, and lit it with a wooden match that he scratched to flame with his thumbnail. He blew smoke and watched it rise in the dry air above him.
“Them Mexicans who come across the border, sometimes I find them holed up in the old mines. If I was to say anything about that in town, there’s folks would come up and use those poor souls for target practice.” Like blackflies, his eyes lit on my Winchester.
I set the rifle down, leaned it against the stack of railroad ties. “Who would do that?”
“Just folks,” he said.
“So you don’t say anything. Why not?”
“Maybe because lots of people in this part of the country got some Mexican blood in them somewhere. Or Indian. It’s far enough back you don’t see it in their faces. Because of how sentiments run way too often out here, you don’t advertise that fact.” He took a drag off his cigarette. “Or maybe I don’t say anything because having a cold, white face don’t mean you have a cold, white heart.”