“Why do you call him Papa Doc?”
“The Doc part’s pretty obvious. Papa because, despite the gruff exterior, he’s got a heart of gold. He says he moved out here to escape the crass, modern world and maybe that was part of it. But for the last fifteen years, he’s been instrumental in helping refugees survive their ordeal in the desert.”
Papa Doc came out with tuna sandwiches and cold beers. We sat on chairs in the porch shade, while Duke lay down beside the old veterinarian. When I’d handed out the jerky and power bars at the Jesus Lode, Peter had refused any food. He wanted to be sure the others had plenty. Now he downed his tuna sandwich in a few quick bites, and Papa Doc brought him another.
“Got transport squared away for your people?” the vet asked.
“We’ll have to spend another night at the Jesus Lode.”
“We?” Papa Doc said. “You should stay off that leg for a while.”
“I’ve got people counting on me. I need to get food back to them. Cork’s power bars won’t sustain them long.”
“I’ll take the food,” I said. “You wait here for Rainy and your father. You still want to get back to your people, Mondragón can bring you. In the meantime, I’ll do what I can up there.”
Peter started to object, but Papa Doc said, “Don’t let your stubborn nature get in the way of clear thinking, kid. It’s a reasonable compromise.”
Peter gave in with a reluctant nod. “We’ll follow you this afternoon. If anything goes wrong . . .” He didn’t finish, probably because there were so many things that could go wrong.
“Nothing will go wrong.” I stood up and offered my hand to Papa Doc. “A real pleasure.”
“One question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“You happen to know Garrison Keillor? I love listening to that guy on the radio.”
*
I bought food at the mercantile in Arivaca, which I put in a big backpack Papa Doc had loaned me. I set out for the Jesus Lode a little after 2:00 p.m. The jeep trail was a rough drive, and I took it easy with the pickup. In the rearview mirror, I could see those dark clouds mounting, as they had the day before, building toward another monsoon downpour. I was doing fine until I cleared the southern end of the Santa Margaritas. That’s when the chopper picked me up.
I caught it out of the corner of my eye, a dark flicker across the sun. At first, I thought it was a vulture, that bird whose biological adaptation to the desert Agent Sprangers so admired. But it tracked me, and I finally stopped and pulled out the binoculars, and knew I’d been made. I had no idea if it was Border Patrol or one of the other interested parties in all this, but I was certain if I kept going, they’d follow me right to the Jesus Lode.
I considered my alternatives. I could stop and let the storm overtake me. The clouds were rolling in fast, lightning alive inside them, spitting bolts at the ground. I figured the violence of what was coming would probably drive off the chopper. But if the day before was any indication of what to expect, I’d have to make my way in a torrential downpour, into and out of swales that might be flash-flooded. I could simply wait where I was until the storm had passed, but I had no idea how long that might be. And if there was flooding, I couldn’t even guess how long it would take for the swales to become passable.
The other possibility was simply to continue moving until I neared the Lulabelle, since both the Border Patrol and Rodriguez’s people already knew about my visit to that area. I wouldn’t be far from the Jesus Lode.
In the end, I went on.
The storm overtook the Santa Margaritas about the same time I came abreast of the Lulabelle. As I’d anticipated, the chopper retreated, swung off to the south, and disappeared. I picked up speed, hoping I didn’t crack an axle on a high rock. Just as the rain began, I reached the place where, according to my GPS, I’d parked the truck that morning. I stayed out of the swale where I’d hidden the pickup—didn’t want to risk it getting washed away—but pulled off the jeep trail behind a gathering of mesquite that provided some cover. I got out, shouldered the food pack, grabbed my Winchester, and started into the Santa Margaritas, leaning into the violence the storm had begun to throw at me.
In that monsoon rain, the desert became a liquid thing. Water poured off the rocks in sheets. The soil was viscous and slippery, and as I struggled up the slope, I knew I was leaving deep prints that, unless the rain washed them away completely, would easily lead anyone who was interested right to the Jesus Lode. But I didn’t have much choice. I kept moving, soaked to the bone, with lightning slashing at the hills around me and thunder shaking the ground under my feet.
They were all gathered at the entrance to the mine, watching the storm from behind a little waterfall that leaped from the rocks above. They moved aside to let me through. I sloughed off the pack and opened it. At the mercantile in Arivaca, I’d selected food that would require no cooking, since a fire, or the smoke from it, could be seen from a great distance. I pulled out the bread, peanut butter, jam, canned fruit, and trail mix I’d bought. In that narrow tunnel, with the storm raging outside, the women and their children ate, while I parked myself behind the waterfall and watched to be certain they were safe.
The storm passed in the late afternoon. I went outside and took up a position in the rocks that gave me a good view of the desert. With my binoculars, I could see where I’d parked the truck a mile or so distant. I waited for Peter and Rainy and Mondragón to show. I heard a noise at my back, and found that one of the children, a boy of eleven or twelve, had left the mine and climbed to where I sat.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” he replied.
“You speak English?”
“A little.”
“Have a seat.” I gestured to a place next to me.
He sat and stared at the desert, where the storm still battered the sky far to the west.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Juan.”
“Cork,” I said and offered my hand.
He took it easily. His palm was rough, heavily callused.
“You’ve worked hard,” I said.
“Strong.” He flexed his arms to show me his muscles. “I cut cane.”
“Sugarcane?”
He nodded. “Until the men came.”
“What men?”
Juan shrugged. He wore a beat-up Dodgers cap. I tapped the bill and said, “Where’d you get the hat?”
“It was my brother’s.”
“You like baseball, Juan?”
“Yes. Most of the boys, they play soccer. But I want to be a pitcher, like my brother.”
“Where is your brother?”
He looked out across the desert. “The men who came, they killed him. My father. My uncle. They burned the sugarcane.” He was quiet, then said, “I want to pitch for the Dodgers someday.”
“You like the Dodgers?”
“Hugo Pivaral pitched for them.”