Magnolia City (47 page)

While others knelt before the giant crucifix, Hetty went down on her knees before these images of the starry Virgin. No wonder the Mexicans revere her as their patron saint. No matter how flawed our own earthly mothers might be, here was one avatar of the Divine Mother who was perfect in her love: a gossamer, celestial goddess that all mestizas could adore.
I think I’ve finally found my lady,
Hetty thought. She prayed for her protection, visualized the blue cloak flowing around her like warm arms and staying with her no matter where she went.

Then she got into her truck and headed south on Route 281 toward San Diego, Texas, and the brush country.

H
etty steered along the gravel road slowly, braking as the truck rattled through the ruts that flash floods had left in the spring. She followed it until the road dipped down and crossed the dry creek bed itself. Here she parked and got out, checking the ground before she put her foot down. She looked up and down the creek bed, but saw no sign of a pack train. Only furrow after furrow of hoof-prints from heavily laden mules. Perhaps it wasn’t dark enough for them to make their final approach to
Las Ánimas
. She backed the truck up onto the embankment and sat in the cab, waiting.

Friday used to be pickup day, but a lot could have changed in three years. It already had. When she’d arrived at the ranch, she’d learned that Jeremiah was in jail and that Seca’s real name was Gus—Gustavo. He was bringing in the first pack train tonight, the man behind the table had told her—an impudent fellow sporting a bow tie and suspenders. But the man had also told her she had to register with the Duke of Duval, Archie Parr himself, and pay a hefty
mordida
.
A hundred and fifty dollars! That’s half my money!
That’s why she had broken the rule and driven out into the brush alone. If she could just talk to Seca, she knew everything would be all right.

She rolled down her windows and listened to the sounds of the brush as daylight began leaking away. Insects called in shuddering waves, and a lone coyote howled somewhere far off.
If I get lost,
she reminded herself,
I could always do what Mac did—follow a fence back to the road, down a
sendero,
a path cleared through the thorns
. Reassured, she took the teller’s envelope out of her bag and slipped it into one of her boots, drawing the laces even tighter. Then she tucked her handbag under the driver’s seat. A whiff of cumin teased her nose. She opened the fragrant paper bag on the seat beside her and ate a couple of the pork tamales she’d gotten in San Diego at the stand Odell had told her about. “They’re the real thing,” he’d said, “steamed for an hour inside corn shucks.”

The sound of hooves thudded below. Not galloping, but loping along cautiously. She looked down into the creek bed, and he appeared, faint in the dusk light.
El explorador
—the scout they sent ahead to be sure the coast was clear. He spotted the truck immediately, of course. He did two things simultaneously: slid his 30-30 out of his saddle scabbard and formed his lips into the plaintive cry of the great horned owl. He was answered from a distance by several quick hoots. Then Hetty heard more hooves as two other armed
vaqueros
came riding in behind him. All three rust-colored faces glowered up at the truck. Hetty stashed the tamales on the floor, then got out slowly and kept her hands splayed to show that she carried no weapon. She tried not to let her fingers tremble too much. The other two drew their rifles.

“Buenas noches, señores,”
she said as she stood on the edge of the embankment.
“¿Se encuentra El Víbora Seca?”

The scout sniggered that none of their snakes were dry and groped himself, bringing a bawdy laugh out of the other two. They began debating what they were going to do with her. The scout said that he was ready to bed
la gringa
right now in the back of her truck, but the bearded man on his right could see that she was
muy macha
and would require more than one man to quench her fire. He suggested they take
la puta
captive and keep the whore in their camp tonight. That way they could each have a turn enjoying her. He pulled a bottle out of his saddlebags and guzzled some, wiping his black goatee with the back of his hand.
El explorador
snarled at him, and they began exchanging insults, challenging each other’s virility.

“¿Se encuentra El Víbora Seca?”
she insisted again, lighting a cigarette and leaning on the fender. The scout shot her a menacing glance and swung a leg up to slide out of his saddle.
Uh-oh, this may have been a huge mistake.
Hetty turned to jump into the truck and back out of the culvert, but she was too late. He was already swaggering up the embankment. She braced herself against the fender.

“¿Quieres conocer al víbora?”
he asked. He said that his snake was ready to spit some venom now and unzipped his pants. He pressed himself against her, kissing her roughly and scratching her skin with his stubble. She dropped her cigarette. He tried to squash her between his legs, unbuckle his pants, and hold on to his rifle at the same time, but couldn’t quite manage all three. Hetty wiggled out and tore open the truck door. When he tried to follow her, his pants sagged around his ankles, giving her time to hop into the cab, click the lock, and roll up the window. He twirled his rifle around and swung the butt as hard as he could at the window. It shattered. Hetty flinched away from the flying glass and honked the brassy horn over and over. He undid the lock and came after her. She slid over to the other side and kicked the door open. She jumped out and came face-to-face with the Mexican in the black goatee. He stood leering at her in the dim light. When she tried to run by him, he caught her in the vise of his arms. His breath stank of mescal and cigarettes. “Seca! Seca!” she screamed over and over until her captor clamped his sweaty hand over her mouth and dragged her down into the creek. The scout trailed behind, hitching up his pants and dragging a roll of rawhide rope out of his saddlebag. He sliced some off and tied her hands behind her back. When she tried to kick him away, he backhanded her across the cheek and sent a sharp pain ricocheting through her head. He spit out words she was glad she didn’t understand and kicked her in the legs and buttocks with the blunt toe of his cowboy boots.

“You’re going to be
sorry!
” she screamed. “Seca’s a friend of mine. Gustavo—Gus!” When she tried to scream again, they gagged her with a couple of kerchiefs tied together, then beat her some more.

Finally, the scout knotted a noose around her neck and tied it to the horn of his saddle, giving her several yards of slack. He mounted his horse, cursing at her, while one of the others made the
krrooo-oo
of the great horned owl. They rode forward, tugging Hetty behind them like a peasant arrested by the Rurales. She stumbled through the twilight as best she could, knowing she had to keep up or be dragged along on the ground.

Hetty laid her head on her knees in despair. She’d miscalculated, gambled one time too many, and lost. She cursed herself for being such a fool. The three Mexicans were going to turn her into just another lousy
chingada,
raped and undone. Did it matter anyway? Who would care as long as she paid back the money she owed and kept to herself? She had to give in, let herself be taken, and surrender, finally, to
nada
.

Nothing.

She reminded herself to breathe.

Hetty had no sooner taken several deep breaths to calm her nerves when the
krrooo-oo
of the great horned owl bleated in the darkness. It was the same ghostly sound that echoed down the creek bed before she’d been captured, and Hetty knew that mournful cry didn’t rise out of the throat of an owl. Another
krrooo-oo
sounded in answer, then a light swept over the ground. She craned her neck to see what was happening. Someone emerged out of the ranch house dangling a farm lantern. He swung it slowly—sending black tree shadows seesawing across the dusty earth. That must have been a signal because as soon as he snuffed out the wick, Hetty was plunged into a tumult of terrifying sounds—thuds of many hooves, the clash of bottles being unloaded, mules braying with relief as the weight was lifted off their backs. She pulled her legs close for fear of being trampled.

The animals soon grew still and the wind rose again, bringing with it the smell of smoke. Before long she heard the crackle of twigs and saw an orange light flickering. She twisted her head around again. Through the lace of mesquite branches, a campfire lit up the clearing. She caught a whiff of roasting meat. She tried to count the number of copper-colored faces hovering over the flames—close to a dozen. Cigarettes dangled from their mouths, and the conversation reaching her through the smoke was anything but polite, with cries of
“pingas”
—“dicks”—and
“¡No me jodas!”
—“Don’t fuck with me!”—growled more than once. She felt an increasing sense of dread imagining what was going to happen to her when they’d finished eating. She hid her face behind the tree again. Trembling, she tried to work the kerchiefs off her mouth so she could call to the ranchers for help, but they were tied on too tightly. Her cheek throbbed, and her legs felt sore and bruised from being beaten. The rawhide cut into her wrists.

After a while, she heard rustling and whispering. Her three captors stole through the brush and eyed her with relish, arguing over who would have the first turn.
El explorador
felt it was his privilege, as he was the one who’d subdued her. The bearded man disagreed, boasting that he’d been the one who’d caught her when she’d escaped from the truck. All three decided they would need a serape to spread on the ground. They set off in search of one.

Hetty’s mind went adrift in the darkness as she cried quiet tears. She saw Garret reaching out his hand to her as he’d done so many nights ago. Why didn’t she take it? Why did she let him walk away from her? She couldn’t see any answers in this blackness. The night seemed endless, inside and out. It was a lonely place, filled with the distant howls of coyotes. Make that singular. One lone coyote, half starved, with a bad case of mange. That’s all that lived in this wilderness. Nothing brave and bloodthirsty here. Just things that slunk and skulked, elusive eyes dry and cracked in the drought. That made her think of the fable her mother had once told her, about the fox and the coyote. Now she understood what it meant. The coyote had gotten cut to pieces trying to chase the image of the fox reflected in the mirrors of a hacienda. That was Hetty, cut by dark mirrors that reflected back her own image. There was nothing there after all, just broken glass. She was as stupid as that coyote and just as dead. She thought of all the tales her mother had told her and ached to hear her voice once more. Other faces flashed in the shards of mirror: Garret, Cora, and baby Pierce. Would she see any of them again?

Then something flickered in the darkness. Not a campfire but two candles. Burning on the altar at the Chapel of Miracles today. Miguel had sent her there for a reason. Hetty pictured the blue mantle with the stars on it, called it down out of the heavens to surround her, pictured the Virgin’s hands coming together between her legs like a chastity belt, like a prayer—
Oh, Virgen de Guadalupe
—Empress of the Americas—
protégeme, protégeme.

She held this image in her mind as she heard the three men come back and spread the serape on the ground, then free her from the trunk and untie her hands that were so cramped behind her. She could feel them stretching her arms out into the crucifix pose as in the painting by Cora, tying her wrists to two different trees so her body was completely open and vulnerable. She didn’t even try to kick them as they unbuttoned her blouse and pulled her pants down to spread her legs. She still saw the hands of the Empress, clasped there in the shape of a V. Serenity settled over her like a misting of stardust, quelling her fear. She listened calmly to the sounds around her. The crackle of the fire. The sound of a belt being unbuckled. The breathing of a man aroused. The three Mexicans must have settled their argument because
el explorador
was the first to slouch between her legs and unbuckle his pants. They sagged at his feet. He sniggered with pleasure, yanking on his raw brown erection. It grew shockingly large and pointed right at her in the firelight.

In her state of calm, Hetty was able to distinguish a man’s voice a little way off. It was a voice she recognized. He was giving commands over by the fire, and someone was answering him:
“Sí, mi jefe.”
She knew it—Seca was here! She tried to glance that way, but then the scout was on top of her. She felt his fingers join those of the Empress at the crux of her legs. He began catching his breath and gyrating his hips. Then he made one mistake. He slipped the gag off her mouth roughly so he could kiss her. For a few moments, she pretended to kiss him back, letting his tongue into her mouth and pushing hers into his. Then she twisted her lips away long enough to scream
“Seca!”
as loud as she could. He clamped his hand over her mouth, but it was too late.

“¿Y éso qué es?”
she heard the distant voice demand.

“Es la gringa,”
someone answered.

There was silence. The scout pushed himself into a standing position and buttoned up his pants. His cockiness collapsed into servility as footsteps approached. Hetty heard the creak of cowboy boots and felt a man straddling her. She couldn’t make out who it was in the darkness but thought she recognized the bend of his beaten-up Stetson.

He turned her face into the firelight. Amazed, he asked, “Esther de las Ardras?”

Seca untied Hetty and carried her over to a rock near the fire. The Stetson shadowed his features as he wrapped her in a serape and examined her wounds. Then he knelt before her on one knee and removed his hat, asking if she were all right. Hetty nodded, her fears uncoiling when she saw his face. She was afraid he would look different from her memories of him, less dangerous, more ordinary. But the man kneeling before her was as rugged a
norteño
as ever, the warrior’s gaunt cheekbones shaded by three days of stubble, a new scar stabbed across one cheek. The eyes gazing at her were definitely the same—those haunting black mesquite eyes flickering in the firelight with their glint of hidden power. After reassuring her, he stomped around the fire, forcing his men to fall back and let him through. Everyone could hear him spewing out wrathful Spanish at the three would-be rapists hiding in the trees.