Suray said something, but Dawson didn’t have a clue as to what he’d said because his mouth was full. After wrestling the Suburban through the busy streets of Chihuahua, they turned onto the paved road that took them west and into the Sierra Madres mountains that rose shrouded and hazy.
As they steadily climbed higher, Dawson let the vehicle drift into the left lane, avoiding three Indian women with braided hair and colorful skirts who walked at the edge of the asphalt. Suray grunted and motioned for him to stop. Dawson hit the brakes and guided the hulking vehicle to the shoulder. The women ran to it. Suray rolled down his window as the women breathlessly talked to him in Raramuri. The next moment they were tossing their bundles into the back and climbing into the back seat. Dawson took a deep breath as the three women filled the truck with their fleshy, earthy scent. He wrestled the vehicle back onto the highway and gunned it higher into hills.
“Where are they going?” Dawson asked.
“To their village,” Suray said. “Not far from Creel.”
As the road wound into the mountains, the bushes thickened, the stubby piñon pines giving way to the tall ponderosas. The women had been working at the Mennonite community, Suray explained in his halting Spanish. They’d earned some money, gone shopping in Chihuahua for clothes, and were now on their way home. Suray handed tortillas to the women who smiled and ate quietly.
Around a sharp turn Dawson braked at a Mexican army truck stopped sideways in the road. Soldiers with assault rifles motioned for him to stop. His heart pounded. Suray looked at him, grimacing in pain, and threw aside the blanket covering his shoulders. In the rearview mirror, Dawson saw the women, who had been dozing, sit up.
Dawson rolled his window down as a soldier stood in front of the truck, pointing an automatic rifle at him. Another soldier put his face in the window, glancing at the Raramuri.
“Donde va?” the soldier asked. Where are you going?
“Creel,” Dawson said.
“Quien están?” the soldier asked, nodding to the women. Who are they?
“They are returning to their villages from Chihuahua,” Dawson said.
The soldier thought for a moment. “You’re from the United States?”
Dawson nodded warily.
“Show me your passport and tourist card.”
His stomach knotted. Hell. He still didn’t have a card. He handed the soldier his passport. The soldier flipped through the pages, then stared at him. “Where is your card?”
“I don’t have one,” Dawson said.
The soldier had a round face and flat nose, and motioned with his gun. “Get out.”
Suray looked scared. Dawson turned off the engine, set the brake, and stepped out as the soldier strode over to an officer standing at the side of the road. The officer turned to look at Dawson. The man was stocky and had a thick moustache and polished boots. He strutted over to Dawson and stood with his feet spread and his thumbs hooked into his belt.
“You have no visitor’s card?”
“My mother lives in Juárez. She’s Mexican. I don’t need one.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Soy periodista,” Dawson said. I’m a journalist. He reached into his back pocket for his wallet and handed the man a business card.
The officer turned it over several times. “Es nada.” He said. It is nothing. He handed it back.
“I’m helping these Indians get back to their village.”
The officer waved to his men. “Search the vehicle.”
“Let me see your passport,” the officer said.
Dawson pointed to the soldier who’d taken it moments earlier who now handed it to the officer. He flipped through the pages, looked at Dawson’s mug shot, then at him. The women had had already climbed out and stood to the side as soldier opened the back doors. Suray lingered outside his door, holding his arm in a sling.
“What’s wrong with him?” the officer asked.
“He broke his arm.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
The soldier at the front of the SUV hurried around to Suray and pushed him sharply, making Suray wince. He then forced him to lean against the Suburban, spread eagled, to be searched. The women were pulling their bundles from the back of the SUV and plopped them on the ground. The soldiers picked through the contents. The women squatted by the side of the road and waited, as if they’d been through this all many times.
It was hot, and Dawson’s shirt stuck to his back. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “If a penalty needs to be paid, perhaps we can discuss it,” he said, trying to sound casually confident.
“Perhaps,” the officer said, narrowing his eyes. He then nodded and motioned for Dawson to follow him to the edge of the road. Dawson trailed the officer to where black skid marks led across the road and off the shoulder. He paused at the side of the road and peered over the edge. A crumpled military vehicle lay at the bottom of a steep ravine, its underbelly exposed to the sun. Soldiers stood around it. Having seen enough, Dawson pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and held it out to the officer.
The officer looked at it, then lifted his eyes from the money to Dawson. He then took it, folding it and stuffing it in his shirt pocket. He handed the passport back. “Get out of here,” he said. “These mountains can be dangerous.”
Dawson nodded, walked back to the Suburban, and climbed in.
“Get them out of here,” the officer barked to his soldiers with a dismissive wave.
The three women quickly retied their bundles, tossed them inside, and climbed into the back seat. Dawson started the engine, wheeled around the Army truck, and sped up the road. It took a while for his hands to stop shaking. He was lucky he hadn’t been arrested. The soldiers were just a flinch away from putting a bullet in someone. They looked at him as if he was already dead. He sensed they wouldn’t hesitate to kill him, Suray, or the women, and toss their bodies over the side of the road. Dawson felt a chill as he began to doubt the wisdom of this trip. It was too late to turn back now.
Chapter 46
Barrancas del Cobre, Mexico
The air was cool and crisp as Dawson angled the groaning vehicle into the mountain town of Creel. Logs were piled high at a sawmill beside railway tracks were empty freight cars waited idly. Low-slung, ramshackle houses dotted the hillside, half hidden by the trees. Dawson swerved to avoid more Raramuri walking on the road, then slowed as Suray and the Indian women started to talk excitedly.
He parked at the edge of the sun-beaten plaza, near the bright white bandstand. As he set the brake, the Indian women climbed out, hoisted their bundles to their heads, waved weakly at him, then ambled down the paved road.
Suray nodded somberly. “How long do we stop here, señor?”
Dawson shrugged. “Como estas?” he asked. How are you?
“Mejor,” Suray said. “It is good to be back in the mountains.”
“How much further?”
Suray shook his head. “An hour or so. It depends on the road.”
A mile outside of Creel, Suray pointed Dawson onto a dirt road that curved into the hills and disappeared into the recesses of the rocky, pine-covered mountains. It was slow going, as the road was alternately graded and rutted, plunging into deep ravines and climbing around open hillsides with broad vistas of the rugged, tree-covered slopes. Suray’s eyes closed again, occasionally opening but giving no sign that he recognized anything.
Dawson kept driving, though he had no idea where he was going. The Suburban creaked and groaned, and now and again sheep and goats stood on the rounded rocky slopes, chewing grass as a shepherd lazed in the shadows. He followed the winding road around hillsides, splashed across streams and through shadows of towering pines, then climbed slopes until they broke into the angled sunlight.
Dawson saw how easy it was for the narcotráficos to operate openly, yet stay hidden. The road forked at the bottom of a broad and shallow valley. Dawson stopped, which woke Suray. Dawson got ou
t and stretched in the long shadows of late afternoon. “How much farther?”
“Un poco mas,” he said, pointing with a tired wave. A little more.
When they crested the next hill, Suray nodded as the road descended into a small valley that held a cluster of buildings surrounding a stone church with a white steeple. Near the church was a low stone and mud brick building with a weathered wooden awning that sheltered a narrow stone porch. A weathered sign reading “tienda” was tacked beside the wooden door. Dawson parked beside a couple of dusty pickup trucks. Suray nodded again and climbed out.
Tired and stiff, Dawson stood and pressed his palms on the small of his back. He followed as Suray opened a wooden door hanging on leather hinges. Three men with straw cowboy hats sat at one of the three crude tables that filled corner of the dimly lighted store, silhouetted by light filtering through a grimy glass window. On the table was a half-empty bottle of red mescal and several cans of beer. The men turned and stared at Dawson and Suray.
A Raramuri woman with a creased face and dark hair tied with a red handkerchief stood behind a short wooden bar made of rough sawn boards. Behind her were floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with canned goods along with a few bottles of cheap tequila and mescal. Suray spoke to the woman in Raramuri, prompting her to round the counter and follow him out to the Suburban. Dawson followed, uncomfortable with three men’s gazes.
Suray unlocked the rear doors and threw back the tarp, revealing boxes of soap, powdered milk, canned fruits, matches, kerosene, bottled gas, rope, and a dozen sacks of flour and rice. The woman wordlessly pulled a box out and carried it to the door, which she’d propped open with a rock. Dawson carried a box filled with canned goods and liquor bottles that clinked as he walked into a storage room behind the bar. He and Suray watched as the woman took inventory, and when done, she thanked Suray and handed him some money.
Dawson paused at the bar inside the store and asked the woman for a tequila and a beer. She glanced at Suray, who shook his head that no, he didn’t want any. The woman unscrewed the top of a bottle and poured amber liquid into a smudged glass. She handed Dawson a warm can of beer. He wiped the dust off the top, plucked at the pull tab, and drank. Dawson tossed the drink back, and coughed as it burned the back of his throat. It was mescal.
The three men at the table watching silently. One struck a wooden match and it flared, lighting his face as he held it to the tip of a cigarette and puffed. The second had a trimmed mustache and gazed at Dawson menacingly. Dawson turned his eyes to Suray, who glared back at the man.
“Suray,” said the third man, who had a belly like a basketball, thick arms and shoulders, and a wide face with a five-day-growth of beard, speaking in Spanish. “Where have you been?”
Suray ignored him.
“What is the matter Suray? Did you forget how to speak when you were gone?”
Suray shifted his weight, his left arm slung under his shirt, his sleeve hanging limp.
“Better answer him,” the second one said.
“Why is my brother dead?” Suray asked.
“He had a problem, just like you,” the fat one said. “But he was not as smart as you.” The mescal bottle clinked on the glasses as they were refilled. “Maybe he got in the way of a stray bullet. Life can be dangerous in these mountains. Especially for los indios who try to steal the product they are supposed to deliver.”
The mescal burned in Dawson’s stomach. He sipped his beer.
“I think Suray needs a drink to loosen his tongue,” the fat one said. He motioned for the woman to pour Suray a drink. “And give another drink to his friend, the gringo,” the man said. The woman dutifully splashed mescal into Dawson’s glass and one for Suray, which she pushed to him. “We drink to your brother,” the fat one said. The others raised their glasses.
Suray picked up his glass of mescal, held it out, then emptied it onto on the floor.
The men were silent. “That was a waste of good mescal,” the fat one said.
“My brother’s death was the waste of a good man’s life.”
Dawson put his glass down.
“Your brother was stupid,” the fat one said. “His death was his own fault. It does not matter now. He is dead and buried. You would be wise to let his death pass. It is not good for you to insult us.”
“It is impossible to insult pigs,” Suray said.
The men sat in silence, looking at each other. One shifted and scraped his boots across the stone as if he is about to stand. The silver tips on his boots flashed in the fading light.
“Who is your gringo friend there that makes you so brave today?”
“He is an Americano from El Paso.”
“You should tell him this is dangerous country for Americanos and for indios.”
Suray motioned for him and Dawson to leave. Dawson nodded and followed Suray out the door. Outside the sun was setting as they stood by the Suburban. Dawson fumbled for his keys as the door to the tienda banged open. Dawson froze as the three Mexicans staggered out. They paused, holding their hands to shade their eyes in the glare of the setting sun.
Suray rounded the Suburban, and then opened the passenger door. Suray slid a hand below the front seat and yanked out a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun. Suray kept it out of sight as he shoved several shells into the chamber and eyed the Mexicans. He waited beside the Suburban door, the shotgun hidden from view.
Dawson realized that he was standing between Suray and the Mexicans and prayed that Suray would not start shooting. Once again he wondered what the hell he was doing there.
“Suray. Maybe you want to kill us now?” The fat one spit to the dirt. “I spit on you and your brother.” The trio climbed into their pickup, then passed a bottle of mescal from one to another. The driver grabbed the bottle, held it to his mouth, and gulped. “Adios, Suray. Adios Americano.”
The truck engine revved and the truck tires spun, spewing dirt, as the it lurched backwards then stopped. Gears shifted and the truck spun in a circle, raising a cloud of dust as the three whooped until the truck stopped, rocking on creaky springs amid the roiling dust. The one in the passenger seat held a pistol high out the window and fired at the sky. Dawson flinched and ducked, then scrambled around to the front of the Suburban, his heart in his throat, dust floating in the air.
Suray lifted his shotgun and pointed it at the driver.
“You want to kill us?” the driver said. “Go ahead. You may never get another chance.” The driver waited for a moment, then gunned the engine, making the truck fishtail past the church and up the road out of town, trailed by a cloud of dust.
Chapter 47
Barrancas del Cobre, Mexico
The cross atop the church cast a long shadow on the hard-packed dirt. Dust floated in the orange light. With labored steps Suray entered the stone church yard. Dawson followed him around the church and a humble adjoining structure where they knocked on the door. An owl hooted in the distance. A quiet voice came from behind the heavy door, which opened to reveal a balding man in a brown monk’s robe.
Suray introduced Dawson to Padre Antonio. Dawson shook the priest’s soft hand. The man retreated and welcomed them inside. Sunlight filtered through a muslin curtain as Padre Antonio motioned for them to sit in a couple of chairs at the table in the middle of the room. A tin plate contained the remains of his dinner.
“I’m sorry, I have no more food to offer,” the priest said. “But would you like some tesguino? It’s the local beer made by the Indians.”
Dawson shrugged, but Suray shook his head no. The priest nodded, then took a white ceramic cup from a shelf beside the freestanding kitchen sink, and twisted the top off of a two-liter plastic soda bottle. He poured a cup full of the blond beer and clunked it on the table in front of Dawson.
The priest settled back into his chair, his lips tinged with the red chili sauce that he wiped from the plate with a folded tortilla. The priest then gulped his beer from a large tin cup. He smiled, one eye askew, and wiped his mo
uth with a sleeve.
“I’m sorry about your brother,” he said to Suray. “God rest his soul.” He crossed himself and glanced to the ceiling. “We buried him a week ago. That’s why you are here, is it not? You want to visit his grave?”
Suray nodded.
Padre Antonio put a hand on Suray’s shoulder. “We will pray for him.” The priest turned to Dawson. “And you? You are an anthropologist?”
Dawson shook his head, no. “Journalist.”
“We get anthropologists. We get biologists. We get sociologists. But journalists? Hmm. I can usually tell. We’ve lost a few Americans up here, you know. They walk into the forests and are never seen or heard of again.”
“I plan to be around awhile.”
“Suray is a good man,” the priest said.
“How long have you lived here?” Dawson asked.
“Ten years now.” Padre Antonio grinned widely, showing bad teeth. “My predecessor was killed by the narcotráficos. The bishop decreed that no more priests would come here until their safety could be assured. But that’s ridiculous. No one’s safety can be assured, no matter where they live. So I decided to come anyway. Now I realize that God has given me a gift, and I am grateful every day.”
“Grateful?” Dawson asked.
“I have learned to trust God completely. My life is in His hands. Minute by minute. Hour by hour. Day by day. Do you know what that is? It is complete freedom. I am no longer afraid. That is true power. Power over fear is power over death. There is nothing greater that God could have given me.” Padre Antonio grinned as one eye stared off to the wall.
“You’re not afraid of all of the violence up here?” Dawson asked.
The priest shook his head. “Only people who are afraid to die need to carry guns. I’m not afraid. Fear begets violence. Violence begets fear. It is the way of the world.” He smiled and nodded, agreeing with himself. Satisfied at his remarks, he carried his plate to the small counter against the wall. He rinsed the plate with water from a plastic bucket on the counter, then turned. “Shall we visit the grave?”
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