He'd trudged in his dream through a deep snow along a ridge toward a darkened house and the wolves had followed him as far as the fence. They ran their lean mouths against each other's flanks and they flowed about his knees and furrowed the snow with their noses and tossed their heads and in the cold their pooled breath made a cauldron about him and the snow lay so blue in the moonlight and those eyes were palest topaz where they crouched and whined and tucked their tails and they fawned and shuddered as they drew close to the house and their teeth shone that were so white and their red tongues lolled. At the gate they would go no further. They looked back toward the dark shapes of the mountains. He knelt in the snow and reached out his arms to them and they touched his face with their wild muzzles and drew away again and their breath was warm and it smelled of the earth and the heart of the earth.
When the last of them had come forward they stood in a crescent before him and their eyes were like footlights to the ordinate world and then they turned and wheeled away and loped off through the snow and vanished smoking into the winter night. In the house his parents slept and when he crawled into his bed Boyd turned to him and whispered that he'd had a dream and in the dream Billy had run away from home and when he woke from the dream and seen his empty bed he'd thought that it was true.
Go to sleep, Billy said.
You wont run off and leave me will you Billy?
No.
You promise?
Yes. I promise.
No matter what?
Yes. No matter what.
Billy?
Go to sleep.
Billy.
Hush. You'll wake them.
But in the dream Boyd only said softly that they would not wake.
The dawn was long in coming. He rose and walked out on the desert prairie and scanned the east for light. In the gray beginnings of the day the calls of doves from the acacias. A wind coming down from the north. He rolled the blanket and ate the last of the tortillas and the boiled eggs she'd given him and he saddled the horse and rode out as the sun came up out of the ground to the east.
Within the hour it was raining. He untied the blanket from behind him and pulled it over his shoulders. He could see the rain coming across the country in a gray wall and soon it was pounding the flat gray clay of the bajada through which he rode. The horse plodded on. The dog walked beside. They looked like what they were, outcasts in an alien land. Homeless, hunted, weary.
He rode all day the broad barrial between the breaks of the river and the long straight bight of the roadway to the west The rain slacked but it did not stop. It rained all day. Twice he saw riders ahead on the plain and he halted the horse but the riders rode on. In the evening he crossed the railroad tracks and entered the pueblo of Mata Ortiz.
He halted before the door of a small blue tienda and got down and halfhitched the reins to a post and entered and stood in the partial darkness. A woman's voice spoke to him. He asked her if there was a doctor in this place.
Medico? she said. Medico?
She was sitting in a chair at the end of the counter with what looked like a flvwhisk cradled in her arms.
En este pueblo, he said.
She studied him. As if trying to ascertain the nature of his illness. Or his wounds. She said that there was no doctor nearer than Casas Grandes. Then she half rose out of the chair and began to hiss and to make shooing gestures at him with the whisk.
Mam? he said.
She fell back laughing. She shook her head and put her hand to her mouth. No, she said. No. El perro. El perm. Dispensame.
He turned and saw the dog standing in the doorway behind him. The woman rose heavily still laughing and came forward tugging at a pair of old wirerimmed spectacles. She set them on the bridge of her nose and took him by the arm and turned him to the light.
Guero, she said. Busca el herido, no?
Es mi hermano.
They stood in silence. She had not turned loose of his arm. He tried to see into her eyes but the light played off the glass of her spectacles and one of the panes was half opaque with dirt as if perhaps she had no vision in that eye and saw no need to clean it.
El vivia? he said.
She said that he was living when he passed by her door and that people had followed the truck to the end of the town and that he was alive to the limits of Mata Ortiz and beyond that who could say?
He thanked her and turned to go.
Es su perm? she said.
He said that it was his brother's dog. She said that she'd guessed as much for the dog wore a worried look. She looked out into the street where the horse stood.
Es su caballo, she said.
Si.
She nodded. Bueno, she said. Monte, caballero. Monte y vaya con Dios.
He thanked her and walked out to the horse and untied it and mounted up. He turned and touched the brim of his hat to the old woman where she stood in the door.
Momento, she called.
He waited. In a moment a young girl came out and eased past the woman and came to the stirrup of his horse and looked up at him. She was very pretty and very shy. She held up one hand, her fist closed.
Que tiene? he said.
Tomelo.
He held out his hand and she dropped into it a small silver heart. He turned it to the light and looked at it. He asked her what it was.
Un milagro, she said.
Milagro?
Si. Para el guero. El guero herido.
He turned the heart in his hand and looked down at her.
No era herido en el corazon, he said. But she only looked away and did not answer and he thanked her and dropped the heart into his shirtpocket. Gracias, he said. Muchas gracias.
She stepped back from the horse. Que joven tan valiente, she said and he agreed that indeed his brother was brave and he touched his hat again and raised his hand to the old woman where she stood in the doorway still clutching the whisk and he put the horse forward down the single mud street of Mata Ortiz north toward San Diego.
It was dark and starless from the overcast of rain when he crossed the bridge and rode up the hill toward the domicilios. The same dogs sallied forth howling and circled the horse and he rode past the dimly lighted doorways and past the remains of the evening fires where the haze of woodsmoke hung over the compound in the damp air. He saw no one run to carry news of his arrival yet when he arrived at the door of the Munoz house the woman was standing there waiting for him. People were coming out of the houses. He sat the horse and looked down at her.
El esta? he said.
Si. El esta.
El vive?
El vive.
He dismounted and handed the reins to the boy standing nearest in the company gathered about him and took off his hat and entered the low doorway. The woman followed him. Boyd lay on a pallet at the far side of the room. The dog was already curled on the pallet with him. About him on the floor stood gifts of food and gifts of flowers and holy images of wood or clay or cloth and little handmade wooden boxes that held milagros and ollas and baskets and glass bottles and figurines. In the wall niche above him a candle in a glass burned at the feet of the poor wooden Madonna but there was no light other.
Regalos de los obreros, the woman whispered.
Del ejido?
She said that some of the gifts were from the ejido but that mostly they were from the workers who had carried him here. She said the truck had returned and the men had filed in holding their hats and placed these gifts before him.
Billy squatted and looked down at Boyd. He pulled back the blanket and pushed up the shirt he wore. Boyd was wrapped in muslin windings like someone dressed for death and he'd bled through the cloth and the blood was dry and black. He put his hand on his brother's forehead and Boyd opened his eyes.
How you doin, pardner? he said.
I thought they got you, Boyd whispered. I thought you was dead.
I'm right here.
That good Nino horse.
Yeah. That good Nino
horse.
He was pale and hot. You know what I am today? he said.
No, what are you?
Fifteen. If I dont make it another day.
Dont you worry about that.
He turned to the woman. Que dice el medico?
The woman shook her head. There was no doctor. They'd sent for an old woman no more than a bruja and she had bound his wounds with a poultice of herbs and given him a tea to drink.
Y que dice la bruja? Es grave?
The woman turned away. In the light from the niche he could see the tears on her dark face. She bit her lower lip. She did not answer. Damn you, he whispered.
It was three oclock in the morning when he rode into Casas Grandes. He crossed the high embankment of the railroad track and rode up Alameda Street until he saw a light in a cantina. He dismounted and went in. At a table near the bar a man lay asleep in his crossed arms and otherwise the room was empty.
Hombre, Billy said.
The man jerked upright. The boy before him had every air of those bearing grave news. He sat warily with his hands on the table at either side.
El medico, Billy said. Donde vive el medico.
THE DOCTOR'S MOZO unlocked and unlatched the door cut into the wooden gate and stood there just inside the darkened zaguan. He did not speak but only waited to hear the supplicant's tale. When Billy was done he nodded. Bueno, he said. Pasale.
He stepped aside and Billy entered and the mozo resecured the door. Espere aqui, he said. Then he went padding away over the cobbles and disappeared in the dark.
He waited a long time. From the rear of the zaguan came the smell of green plants and earth and humus. A rustle of wind. Of things disturbed that had been sleeping. Outside the gate Nino whinnied softly. Finally a light came on in the patio and the mozo reappeared. Behind him the doctor.
He was not dressed but came forward in his robe, one hand in his robe pocket. A small and unkempt man.
Donde esta su hermano', he said.
En el ejido de San Diego.
Y cuando ocurrio ese accidente?
Hace dos dias.
The doctor studied the boy's face in the pale and yellow light. He is very hot?
I dont know. Yes. Some.
The doctor nodded. Bueno, he said. He told the mozo to start the car and then turned back to Billy. I will need some minutes, he said. Five minutes.
He held up one hand and spread his fingers.
Yessir.
You have nothing to pay of course.
I got a good horse outside. I'll give you the horse.
I dont want your horse.
I got papers on him. Tengo los papeles.
The doctor had already turned to go. Bring in the horse, he said. You can put the horse here.
Have you got room to where we can take the saddle with us? The saddle?
I'd like to keep the saddle. My daddy give it to me. I got no way to carry it back.
You can carry it back on the horse.
You wont take the horse?
No. It is all right.
He stood outside in the street holding Nino while the mozo slid back the bars and opened the tall wooden gates. He started through leading the horse but the mozo cautioned him back and told him to wait and then turned and disappeared. After a while he heard the car start up and the mozo came driving up through the zaguan in an old Dodge opera coupe. He drove out into the street and got out and left the motor running and took the bridlereins and led the horse in through the gates and on toward the rear.
In a few minutes the doctor appeared. He was dressed in a dark suit and the mozo followed behind carrying his medical bag.
Listo, the doctor said.
Listo.
The doctor walked around the car and climbed in. The mozo handed in the bag and shut the door. Billy climbed in the other side and the doctor turned on the lights and the motor died.
He sat waiting. The mozo opened the door and reached under the seat and got the crank and walked around in front of the car and the doctor turned the lights off. The mono bent and fitted the crank into the slot and raised up and gave it a turn and the motor started again. The doctor ran the engine up loudly and turned the lights back on and rolled down the window and took the crank from the mozo. Then he pulled the shiftlever in the floor down into first and they pulled away.
The street was narrow and ill lit and the yellow beams of the headlamps ran out to a wall at the end of it. A family of people were just entering the street, the man walking ahead, behind him a woman and two halfgrown girls carrying baskets and shabbily tied bundles. They froze in the headlights like deer and their postures mimicked the shadows volunteered outsized upon the wall behind them, the man standing upright and erect and the woman and the older girl throwing up one arm as if to protect themselves. The doctor levered the big wooden steering wheel to the left and the headlights swung away and the figures vanished once more into the indenominate dark of the Mexican night.
Tell me of this accident, the doctor said.
My brother got shot in the chest with a rifle.
And when did this happen?
Two days ago.
Does he speak?
Sir?
Does he speak? Is he awake?
Yessir. He's awake. He never did talk much.
Yes, said the doctor. Of course. He lit a cigarette and smoked quietly on the road south. He said that the car had a radio and that Billy could play it if he wished but Billy thought that the doctor would play it himself if he wanted to hear it. After a while the doctor did so. They listened to american hillbilly music coming out of Acuna on the Texas border and the doctor drove and smoked in silence and the hot eyes of cattle feeding in the bar ditches at the side of the road floated up in the carlights and everywhere the desert stretched away in the dark beyond.
They turned up the ejido road through the river loam and the pale shapes of the cottonwood trunks passing in the lights and lumbered over the wooden bridge and up the hill and into the compound. The ejido dogs crossed back and forth in the lights howling. Billy pointed their way and they drove up past the darkened doors of the sleeping communals and halted before the dim yellow light where his brother lay within among his offerings like some feastday icon. The doctor shut off the engine and the lights and reached for the bag but Billy had already taken it to carry. He nodded and stepped out of the car and adjusted his hat and entered the house with Billy behind him.
The Munoz woman had already come from the other room and she stood in the frail light of the votive candle in the only dress Billy had ever seen her in and wished the doctor a good evening. The doctor handed her his hat and then unbuttoned his coat and slipped it from his shoulders and held it up and turned it and reached his glasses in their case from the inside pocket. Then he handed the coat to the woman and removed his cufflinks left and right and put them in his trouser pocket and turned up his starched white shirtsleeves two turns each and sat on the low pallet and took the glasses from their case and put them on and looked at Boyd. He placed one hand on Boyd's forehead. Como estas? he said. Como to sientes?
Nunca mejor, wheezed Boyd.
The doctor smiled. He turned to the woman. Hiervame algo de aqua, he said. Then he took from his pocket a small nickelplated flashlight and leaned over Boyd. Boyd closed his eyes but the doctor pulled down the lower lid of each eye in turn and examined them. He waved the light slowly back and forth across the pupils and looked in. Boyd tried to turn his head away but the doctor had placed his hand alongside his cheek. Warne, he said.
He pulled back the blanket. Something small scurried away over the muslin. Boyd was wearing one of the white cotton jumpers the workers in the field wore and it had neither collar nor buttons. The doctor pushed it up and pulled Boyd's right elbow down from the sleeve and pulled it over his head and then very carefully pulled the garment down off of Boyd's left arm and handed it to Billy without even looking at him. Boyd lay wrapped in cotton sheeting and his wound had bled through the winding
and the blood had dried and blackened. The doctor slid the flat of his hand up under the wrappings and placed his hand on Boyd's chest. Respire, he said. Respire profundo. Boyd breathed but his breathing was shallow and labored. The doctor slid his hand to the left side of his chest near to the dark stains in the sheeting and told him to breathe again. He bent and unsnapped the clasps on his bag and took out his stethoscope and hung it around his neck and he took out a pair of spadeended scissors and cut through the filthy windings and lifted back the severed ends all stiff with blood. He placed his fingers on Boyd's naked chest and tapped his left middle finger with his right and listened. He moved his hand and thumped again. He moved his hand down to Boyd's caved and sallow abdomen and probed gently with his fingers. He watched the boy's face.
Tienes muchos amigos, he said. No?
Como? wheezed Boyd.
Tantos regalos.
He lifted the earpieces of the stethoscope into place and put the cone on Boyd's chest and listened. He moved it from theright to the left. Respire profundo, he said. Por la boca. Otra vez. Bueno. He placed the cone over Boyd's heart and listened. He listened with his eyes closed.
Billy, Boyd wheezed.
Shh, said the doctor. He put his fingers to his lips. No habla. He dropped the earpieces of the stethoscope down about his neck and he lifted by its chain a gold casewatch from his waistcoat pocket and snapped it open with his thumb. He sat with two fingers pressed to the side of Boyd's neck beneath his jaw and he tilted the white porcelained face of the watch toward the votive lamp and sat watching quietly while the needlethin sweepsecond hand sectored the dial with its small black roman numbers.
Cuando puedo yo hablar? Boyd whispered.
The doctor smiled. Ahora si quieres, he said.
Billy?
Yeah.
You dont have to stay.
I'm all right.
You dont have to stay if you dont want. It's all right.
I aint goin nowheres.
The doctor slid the watch back into his waistcoat. Saca la lengua, he said.
He examined Boyd's tongue and he put his finger inside Boyd's mouth and felt the inner face of his cheek. Then he bent and picked up the bag and set it on the pallet beside him and opened the bag and tilted it slightly toward the light. The bag was of heavy pebbled leather dyed black and it was scuffed and worn at the corners and the leather there and along the edges had gone brown again. The brass catches were worn from eighty years of use for his father had carried it before him. He took out a bloodpressure cuff and wrapped it around Boyd's thin upper arm and pumped the contrivance with the bulb. He placed the cone of the stethoscope in the crook of Boyd's arm and listened. He watched the needle drop and watched it bounce. In the panes of his antique eyeglasses the thin and upright flame of the votive lamp stood centered. Very small, very steadfast. Like the light of holy inquiry burning in his aging eyes. He unwound the cloth and turned to Billy.
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