Free Take Me to the River by Will Hobbs Page B

“I am Carlos,” he said. “The boy is Diego. Do you speak Spanish?”
    Rio hesitated. “Not that much,” he said, which surprised me. “Keep speaking English,” he went on, “so my cousin can understand. I’m Rio, he’s Dylan. Come, sit down on these chairs. We’ll make more pancakes, and we could also fry up some meat, if you don’t mind Spam.”
    The Mexican flashed a wide smile. “Like they say in the U.S.A., beggars can’t be choosers.”

Chapter 12
The Coyote’s Story
    â€œC ROSSERS ,” R IO WHISPERED AS we worked side by side at the table mixing more pancake batter and slicing Spam.
    â€œThey’re in really bad shape,” I whispered back, “especially the boy.”
    Carlos was watching us over his shoulder from the chair alongside Diego’s. He seemed suspicious of our whispers. The Mexican was stocky, with a wrestler’s build—not somebody you would want to tangle with. I didn’t know what it was about him that made me so uneasy.
    â€œWe can spare them some food,” Rio whispered.
    â€œWe’re in a lot better shape than they are,” I agreed. “We have to help.”
    â€œWhat you guys talking about?” Carlos called.
    â€œOur food supply,” Rio said. “We’re kind of on short rations. Not to worry, we’re making you a meal that will fill you up.”
    Pretty quick, we brought them plates heaped with pancakes and fried Spam. Carlos accepted a knife and fork, and said yes to maple syrup. “Diego,” I said as I handed the boy his plate, “would you like syrup on your pancakes?”
    I made a pouring motion with the syrup. He nodded without looking me in the eye.
    The boy ate ravenously, with his hands, like a starving raccoon. I filled a liter bottle from one of our five-gallon water jugs and set it by his foot. He drank half immediately. A minute later he drank the other half. “Diego,” I asked as I refilled the bottle, “do you speak English?”
    No response. It seemed like there was something seriously off about him.
    Carlos gave the boy a scornful look. “I barely get his own language out of him. A spoiled brat is what he is. He don’t deserve what his family is trying to do for him.”
    â€œAre you family, Carlos?” Rio asked. “His uncle, something like that?”
    â€œMe, no, no way. I’m just doing my job. His mother in Chicago hired me to go to Mexico and bring him to her.”
    â€œIs that where you’re from—Chicago?”
    â€œ Sí, sí. I live in Chi-ca-go for many years. This is what I do for a living. People go north without their children, and after a while, they pay someone to bring them across.”
    â€œSo, you are a coyote.”
    â€œThe good kind, not the kind you hear about, the ones that leave women and children in the desert to die. I’m not like them. This boy would rather stay with his grandmother in Mexico. He is afraid of his mother’s boyfriend. He is afraid of the desert. He is afraid of everything. I’ve had it up to here with him.”
    â€œYou got lost, you said?”
    â€œ Sí , we been wandering around for days. We had some food, but it was stolen.”
    â€œWhere did you start from?”
    â€œA town called Melchor Múzquiz. We followed dirt roads, but many times you could go this way or that way—no signs. For a long time now, no road at all. We were supposed to find a bridge across the river.”
    â€œYou took a wrong turn all right. The only bridge in a stretch of hundreds of miles is seventeen miles upstream from here. Whoever told you that you could cross on it was mistaken. The bridge is sealed off, and the Border Patrol is always keeping watch there.”
    â€œYou live in Texas?”
    â€œYes, in Terlingua, a hundred miles upstream and ten miles from the river. My cousin is visiting—first time in