The boy turned to face his sister, his brows drawn down in a dark frown. “Pilar, it is dangerous–”
She paused for a moment, then found her opening. “It would be an adventure, Santiago,” she replied, her eyes dancing. “Think of it. Perhaps they are cowboys, and they have killed banditos(italics). Perhaps we will be heroes for saving them.” She suppressed a smile and watched her brother’s face soften. Santiago could never turn down an adventure, and she always kept this as her final argument for any situation.
“Perhaps, if we were careful…” he murmured.
“I am going with or without you,” she continued, turning toward the forest where the gunshots had sounded out. “Do you want to be the one left behind?”
She began to walk quickly toward the forest, keeping low beneath the stalks of the cornfield so that she was hidden from view. Behind her, she heard a low moan and then Santiago’s footsteps, and smiled. Her brother was brave and strong, but he could never win out against her arguments. He moved up beside her, crouching low and putting a hand out to stop her. She allowed him to move in front of her, knowing that he would protect her with his own life, and keep her safe from whatever lay ahead. He was much bigger and stronger than she was, and the sight of him sheltering her warmed her heart and boosted her courage. Whatever happened, she knew, they would face it together.
They crept out of the cornfield and crossed the wide lane before them to enter the woodland. This was an old wood, with tall, strong trees above and a range of soft grasses and ferns below. The soft moss and fern matter on the floor of the forest cushioned their feet and silenced their footsteps, allowing them to dart from tree to tree with no sound. Soon they had come to a large clearing in the woods. Smoke drifted up from the clearing, indicating a campfire there.
Santiago turned and put a finger to his lips, motioning to himself and to the clearing ahead. He pointed to Pilar, then firmly to the ground. Pilar nodded. He was going ahead to see what was in the clearing, and she was to stay here. She watching him drop to the ground and crawl forward toward the opening, keeping his body close to the ground and below the ferns and shrubs of the forest. When he got to the clearing, he peaked around the tree in front of him, then stood and slowly stepped from behind the tree. Turning, he gestured to Pilar to come to him.
She ran through the forest as quietly as she could, anxious to see what had happened in the clearing. She caught up with her brother quickly and glanced around the tree to the clearing. Her breath caught in her throat at what she saw.
“Are they dead?” she asked quietly.
“I would say so,” her brother answered, matching her tone. “They have not moved.”
Before them, five men lay on the ground, riddled with bullet holes. One of the men had been shot in the face, and was obviously dead. The others had wounds in their chests, abdomens and even legs. None of them moved.
Pilar stepped carefully into the clearing. “This is a fresh campfire. Still burning. Some of these men were camping here.”
Santiago grunted, moving toward the men. “These two are certainly dead,” he replied, looking down at the men before him. “Mexican men, roughly dressed, and another there,” he pointed to a third Mexican man, laying a few feet from the first two. He looked up toward his sister. “These men have been traveling. They are filthy and stink.”
Pilar had moved toward the men on the other side of the campfire, and knelt down beside the first. She looked up at her brother, shocked. “These are white men, Santiago.”
Her brother raced to her side, dropping down to his knees beside her. “Americans,” he breathed. He reached out to touch the man’s forehead, then drew his hand back. “What are they doing here? Why would white men have come this far south? To engage in a gunfight with Mexican ranchers?” He moved toward the stack of gear sitting next to the man, and began to rummage through it.
Pilar moved to the other man and looked down at him. Americans. Her mother was American, and had told her stories of the people in her homeland, but Pilar had never met any of them herself. She stared at the man at her feet, wondering what had brought him here, to meet this fate in the woods. He had a strong, kind face, though he looked as though he’d been living rough for several weeks. Her eyes ran down his chest to his belt, then quickly back up. His chest was rising and falling. This man was still alive.
“Santiago!” she muttered sharply, drawing her brother to him. “This man is alive. He has been shot in the thigh and chest, but he is breathing.” She glanced up at her brother, her eyes sharp. “We must get him home so that Mother can tend to his wounds.”
Santiago glanced down, ready to protest his sister’s generosity, and noticed that the man’s eyes were open. He closed his mouth and ducked toward the injured man. “Please,” the American breathed. “Water. Please help me.” The man’s eyes rolled back before he could say more, and his head dropped back to the ground.
Santiago looked up at his sister and nodded. “You are right. We must help this man, and quickly. Go get the horse. We must get him into the wagon.”
***
Pilar galloped ahead of the wagon on her horse, rushing toward the ranch. She was the faster rider, and had ridden ahead of her brother and the wagon to warn her mother and the other ranch hands about the situation. Carrying the American to the wagon had been very hard work, and she was already exhausted. She pressed on, though, fearing for the man’s life. Fearing for the possible consequences of his death. Santiago rattled along behind her, driving the wagon at a slower pace to avoid harming the already injured man.
Before long she was at the outskirts of the ranch, flying past the outbuildings, the barn, and the corrals where they held the horses. This was a large, well-established horse ranch, and took up over 500 acres on its own. Normally she found the size to be a benefit – it kept strangers away from the house at the center, and gave her plenty of areas to find privacy. Today, though, the ranch’s size was a detriment. She put her heels to her mare’s sides, asking for more speed, and began to scream for her mother.
“Mama! Mama! Necesito! Necesito!(italics)” she shouted, her eyes flying over the courtyard that served as the center of the ranch. Her mother ran the ranch with other members of her husband’s family, and had years of experience in treating injured people. She would save the American they had found. But where would she be at this time of day? Pilar hauled her horse to a stop and jumped to the ground, turning in a circle as she called.
***
Elizabeth Arroyo came running from one of the barns, where she had been helping with one of the younger horses. The filly was several weeks old, and still having trouble nursing. She had been doing her best to teach the young horse to find her mother’s milk and nurse on her own. She had dropped the filly at the sound of her daughter’s screams, though, and rushed out. Several of the ranch hands followed her, alarmed at the sound of Pilar’s panic. Elizabeth spotted her daughter and raced toward her, scanning her body for signs of harm. When she reached the girl she pulled her into her arms, holding her close and searching every inch of her body for injury.
“Pilar, what is it?” she asked, pulling back and looking her daughter in the face. “Why are you screaming? Where is your brother?”
Pilar visibly slowed her breathing and started to speak. “Mama, Santiago is on his way. We were in the cornfield, gathering the last of the corn…”
As Pilar told her story, Elizabeth felt the blood draining from her face. A gunfight, so close to the ranch? And with her children there? Americans in the forest? What would they be doing so far south, and what did it mean that one had been killed, on her own property?
She turned quickly to the ranch hand standing next to her. “Miguel, ready one of the rooms in the hands’ house. This man will need a bed and a quiet place to sleep. Juan,” she continued, turning to another, “take my daughter back out to find Santiago. He