Free The Devils Highway: A True Story by Luis Alberto Urrea

down the field. Full of strength. He had the sheer faith in his father and life that could be expected from a kid whose name meant “King of the World.”
    In a surprise gesture of loyalty to his father, Reymundo Jr. asked to go along on the trip. He convinced his father by explaining to him that two strong backs could earn more money in a short time than one. And if they both worked like burros all summer, they’d make double the money. They might buy his mother furniture to go in the new room. For them, the planned trip was a gesture of love.
    Reymundo Sr. was worried about his son’s well-being. The boy was restless and hungry for adventure. The old man was pretty sure his boy would go off alone if he didn’t take him. And he thought of his own lonely journey ahead. When it came time to sit across from Don Moi, he was troubled. But, reluctantly, he signed himself and the boy onto the roster.
    Nahum Landa was a dark young man in his twenties with a melodious voice. He had deep black, shaggy hair. Sometimes you had to lean in to hear him speak. His meeting with Moises was oddly Biblical: two men with Old Testament names haggled over details of their exodus. It seemed like a good idea. Nahum was the brother-in-law of Reymundo Sr. If the extended family went together, they could look out for each other.
    Nahum was deceptive—his quiet voice, with its melodic quickness, its slightly slurred words, and his sometimes evasive gaze, hid the strong man behind the façade. Nahum was a natural leader. He had no doubt he would survive, no matter what happened to them. And his boys signed up with him, looking to him as a guardian.
    There were others signing up.
    Enrique Landeros García was thirty years old. His wife, Octavia, was only twenty-three. They had a son named Alexis. He had recently turned seven, and he was ready for school, but Enrique and Octavia didn’t have the kind of money school required. Although the Mexican system used uniforms to standardize all classes of students, you had to first have the uniform. Shoes. Supplies. Tuition. Enrique made his way to Don Moi’s table for little Alexis—a small illegal venture to pay for a more straightforward chance at a future.
    Reyno Bartolo Hernandez was thirty-seven years old. He was one of the older men in the crew. He and his wife, Agustina, had been married for nineteen years. Theirs was a stable household; it could even be called an established home. After their years together, however, they’d decided to adopt a daughter. Reyno went to Don Moi for money to pay for her care. He didn’t have many clothes to take, though he did put aside his favorite green pants for the long walk.
    Mario Castillo Fernandez was a handsome young man of twenty-five. He was in good condition, a hard worker, his only curse poverty. His wife, Irma, was fiercely dedicated to him. Their love was still strong, though they’d been together since their teens. They had two young children, and like Enrique Landeros, Mario was facing school with no prospects for greater income. And, knowing his love for Irma, there would be more children.
    Perhaps he could build a better house. Add a room. Send the children to school in good pants, with new backpacks, known as
mochilas
. Maybe he could buy Irma new furniture. The rumors said he could get to Florida, where it was warm like home. Pick oranges. How bad could that be? He liked oranges. He wasn’t afraid to work. He added his name to the list.
    Don Moi drove from town to town, patient, happy. He called Chespiro, his shadowy boss in Hidalgo.
    Yes, yes, it’s going well,
jefe
.
    I have them lined up.
    Several already. Seven, eight.
    Don’t worry, I’ll get more.

3
    The Coyote and the Chicken
    T here are things, unlikely as it seems, that unite the Mexican consular corps and the Border Patrol. In consulates, names of certain Border Patrol officers are spoken with respect, even affection—Ryan Scudder of Tucson is called a gentleman; Mike McGlasson of