Safe Passage

by Carla Kelly

  It was longer than that, if he wanted to be honest. He doubted he had enjoyed a good rest since he kissed Addie good-bye before teaming to the logging camp and breaking his leg two years ago. He stood in complete misery as he remembered the honest pleasure of a good night’s rest with his wife beside him. She had a funny way of blowing bubbles in her sleep, and her hair always smelled of lavender. She never minded a cuddle either, unless it was really hot. That last night, they had talked about the baby that was two months underway, making plans already.

  “Adaline.” He couldn’t say anything else because the pain was too great.

  This is getting you nowhere, hombre, he thought, as he gave the reins a little tug and went deeper into the pepper trees, still shrouded in early-morning darkness.

  He couldn’t see far in front of him; thank goodness his horse was smarter. Blanco jerked his head up and whickered. Ammon heard an answering whinny and looked down just before he stepped on a soldier.

  “Ay de mi,” he muttered and stepped back, waiting for the man to sit up and shoot him.

  He waited. When nothing happened, he squatted on the ground and stared at the figure until the barest light penetrated the grove of pepper trees. He knew the man was alive because he heard him breathing. When his own heart quit pounding, Ammon listened to the breathing that stopped and started, slower and slower, and knew he was listening to a dying man.

  He had to be a guerilla. Maybe if he hadn’t been thinking of Addie and feeling remarkably tender just then, Ammon could have backed out of the shelter and found another spot. He knew the area had springs the farther he angled toward the mountains.

  He waited in silence as the sun rose higher, curious now more than frightened. He sat back and dropped the reins, knowing Blanco wouldn’t move. The guerilla’s horse was still just an outline on the other side of the spring. Ammon thought the animal might circle the spring to sniff out Blanco, but he did not move. His big head drooped, and Ammon knew it was one of those horses ridden almost to death. He swallowed and felt a sudden rush of sympathy for the dying man and his desperation—a wounded animal’s desperation—to find a place to hole up and perish.

  The feeling grew, and Ammon did something he hadn’t intended: he bowed his head and prayed for the unknown man’s release. He had never prayed for a guerilla before, but there was something about this lonely setting that compelled him. He knew he wouldn’t much care to die alone.

  Maybe it was one thing more. While he had waited for the sky to darken last night at the little store on the border, Ammon had taken out the Book of Mormon Ma had loaned him and turned to the book of Alma. True, the store had been noisy, and the bench in front met no requirements to allow serious contemplation of the scriptures, but he had skimmed that chapter about Ammon the Nephite and former reprobate, traveling alone into danger after he had parted from his brothers.

  Too bad he couldn’t ask his namesake how he felt about traveling in the land of the Lamanites, but as he sat there by the dying man, Ammon felt a surge of love for the dangerous land he traveled in now. Mexico was his home, and he wanted more than anything to stay in the land of his birth. You ever feel like that, Ammon? he asked in his heart. I’d sure like some advice about now.

  Fear left him as he watched the man and thought about Ammon, who had gone with nothing but faith to preach to the great enemies of the Nephites. “What would you do?” he asked in a whisper and realized he had asked in Spanish. He also knew exactly what Ammon would do. He realized with a start that maybe the book of Alma wasn’t scripture; maybe it was a lesson manual for him. Maybe it always was.

  He knelt beside the man, hesitating for just a moment. He placed his hand lightly on the man’s forehead, trying to think of all those things his mother used to do when he was sick. He knew it was the most puny of gestures, but it wasn’t his imagination when the soldier sighed.

  He heard someone weeping then and looked up, startled, alert. Dawn had sneaked up steadily, and he saw a woman sitting on a fallen log. She had a Mauser rifle in her lap and bandoleras crisscrossed on her chest, and he knew she was a soldadera. He had heard tales about the ferocious women of the revolution who rode beside their men into battle. He knew there were mothers in Colonia García who frightened their misbehaving children into obedience by threatening them with the soldaderas.

  Silent, Ammon watched her, his eyes on the Mauser and then on her face. During one of the skirmishes fought near García last year, he had taken his father’s binoculars—lost shortly after to guerillas—and watched the action from the second floor of their home. Amazed, and then appalled, he watched a soldadera shoot a federal, then scalp him.

  He didn’t see a knife, and this soldadera was more of a girl, probably not much older than his little sister. Joannie would have started her second year at Juárez Stake Academy this fall if they hadn’t been forced to flee Mexico. Now she was thinking about working as a maid in an El Paso hotel. Times change.

  As the light grew, he watched her face and saw nothing there except misery of the acutest kind. I do believe she’s afraid of you, Am, he thought as he took his hand away from the dying man’s forehead. The light was better, so he looked down. The dying man was only a boy too. He looked back at the girl.

  “Your brother?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “I won’t hurt you.” He gestured. “Please come closer. You know, we’re not that far from Topia. If we move him closer to the road and you ride there, you might find a doctor among the soldiers.”

  She shook her head, her eyes wide and terrified now, and he knew without her saying anything that she and her brother had been on the losing side. They were hiding too, same as he was.

  Ammon looked back toward the road. In the better light, he saw the bloody trail they had left as she dragged her brother into the sheltering grove. “We have to fix that,” he told her, wondering if she would ever speak to him.

  He stood up, and the Mauser came up automatically out of the girl’s lap. “Careful, careful,” he murmured. “I’m going to cover our tracks.” He pointed to the bloody trail. “Someone’s going to see that.”

  He watched a war of emotions play across her face as she obviously toyed with the idea of just shooting him and getting it over with. He squatted down again and thought of that earlier Ammon. “How can I help you?” he asked, thinking of Old Ammon the Nephite.

  “Cover the tracks,” she said and lowered the rifle to her lap again.

  She had a little girl’s voice, soft and high-pitched, so he glanced at her again, wondering just how old she was. You wouldn’t scare too many García Colony children into good behavior, he thought as he turned his back to her, hunting for a branch.

  So far, so good. He hadn’t heard the click of the hammer being pulled back on the Mauser. He broke off a hanging limb of the nearest pepper tree, walked back to the road, and brushed behind him as he walked backward to the spring. It probably wouldn’t hold up to close scrutiny, but the guerillas wouldn’t be looking for a boy.

  He returned to the wounded boy, pleased to see that the young girl had moved closer. He doubted she was a day older than fourteen, now that he could see her better. He also noticed that her once-white skirt was stained and bloody.

  “Are you wounded too?” he asked gently.

  She shook her head. “It is my brother’s blood,” she told him as tears left dusty tracks on her face. “Señor, will he die?”

  “I fear so, Adelita.” He called her the generic name of the soldaderas from a military song. He could do better, since it looked like they were going to share this spring today. “What is your name?”

  “Serena Camacho.” She gestured to her brother. “This is Felipe.” Her chin trembled. “He said revolution would be an adventure.”

  He smiled at her, at a loss what to say, except that he did know what it felt like to be a big brother. “Serena, my sisters never believe me when I tell them something like that.”

  The wisp of a smile crossed her fa
ce and she edged closer. She took her first good look at him. “You are not one of us.”

  “I am. I was born in Mexico.” He wondered about the virtue of telling her his religion but figured the real Ammon wouldn’t hang back. “I’m a Mormon from Colonia García.”

  “We came through there a few days ago,” she said, much closer now. She sat beside her brother.

  “Did you … did you see anyone there like me?” He had to know.

  She shook her head, then looked him in the eye and glanced away, embarrassed.

  “Some of the soldiers took hams and sausage.” She sighed. “We didn’t get any of that.”

  I don’t suppose you did, he thought, feeling strangely compassionate, considering that bandits like her and her dying brother had been robbing them blind for two years now. Youthful soldiers like Serena and Felipe Camacho were probably pretty far down any military roster.

  Felipe groaned, and Serena sucked in her breath. “I don’t know what to do, señor,” she said. “Do you?”

  He didn’t, but he couldn’t tell her that, not when she was giving him that patient look, expecting him to have some ideas since he was older and possibly wiser. He didn’t want to disturb the young soldier, but Ammon ran his hand along Felipe’s head, feeling for a wound. Nothing.

  He looked at Serena. Without a word, she pulled back the serape across his middle, and he had to look away until his stomach settled. Felipe Camacho was not going to leave the grove of pepper trees. He touched her hand and she surprised him by grasping his fingers.

  “I’m afraid,” she whispered. “Can you help him?”

  You’ve seen his stomach. No, I can’t, he thought, but he knew she didn’t want to hear that. All right, Ammon. I know what you would do. He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a small bottle. I’m either the biggest fool on the planet or all this girl has.

  “This is consecrated oil,” he told her, holding out the bottle. “Go ahead and smell it. Just olive oil.”

  She did as he said, as obedient as one of his little sisters, who always expected him to do the right thing. She looked at him, expectant.

  “I can’t heal your brother, but you know that already, don’t you, chiquita?” He couldn’t help himself; the little endearment slipped out.

  She nodded, her eyes filled with misery. “But what can you do?”

  “I can put a drop of this on his head and pray that nuestra padre celestial will take him quickly. He has suffered enough.”

  For a long moment, she stared at her brother, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he struggled to breathe. “Do it then, señor,” she said, her voice scarcely louder than the breeze that ruffled the low-hanging leaves of the pepper tree overhead. “I believe you.”

  He thought suddenly of Adaline, wishing with all his heart that he could have been by her side for a blessing when she needed him. He did as the girl said, administering the oil and then asking an all wise, knowing, and quite compassionate Father in Heaven to welcome this soldier into paradise without any delay. Eyes closed, he thought of all the times he had wished all the armies and guerillas of Mexico to long and painful deaths and silently added to his prayer, asking the Lord to forgive him for being stupid and human.

  When he finished, he put the bottle back in his pocket, sat back on his heels, and watched Felipe Camacho take one breath, let it out, and breathe no more. Thanks, Lord, he prayed silently.

  Wonder of wonders, the Camachos had an entrenching tool, probably stolen from a federal in one nameless skirmish or other. While Serena sobbed, Ammon dug a hole deep enough to discourage wolves and mountain lions. The ground by the spring was soft, and all things considered, there were worse places to wait for the morning of the resurrection.

  With her help, he put the boy into the ground, arranging the dirt just so, covering him with the black earth of Mexico. When the only thing left to cover was his face, Ammon sent Serena to her own horse, telling her to bring him closer for a drink from the spring. It was the most superficial of errands. She must have known what he was going to do, so she knelt first and made the sign of the cross on her brother’s forehead before she stood up gracefully and—with such dignity—did as he asked, turning away.

  He touched Felipe too, then shoveled dirt over his face. He smoothed down the dirt, patting it here and there the way he remembered his mother tugging up the quilts around him when he was much younger.

  He watched Serena try to tug her horse closer. I should ask the Lord to take you too, old fellow, he told himself, and did just that. As he stared, amazed, the horse sank to his knees, then rolled onto his side, dead.

  Well, my goodness, Heavenly Father, he thought. That’s probably enough for now.

  Serena stood a moment, her hands on her hips, as she contemplated the horse. In another moment, she was sitting close beside Ammon, close enough for their shoulders to touch. Again he was reminded of his sisters.

  “Señor, will you get me home?” she asked finally. “I don’t want any more adventure.”

  “Where do you live?”

  He winced as she told him Santa Clarita, a village ten miles west and far from the relative safety of the mountains.

  It isn’t supposed to be like this, he told himself. I’m supposed to rescue my wife.

  “Claro. Of course I will.”

  FIVE

  IF ONE BIT of inspiration destined to humble him was good, then two were even better: Serena loved canned salmon.

  At first he thought her enthusiasm was due to starvation. By mutual, if unspoken, consent, they had withdrawn deeper into the grove of pepper trees, taking Blanco with them. When she set down her heavy rifle, Ammon picked it up, opened the chamber, and smiled to himself. Empty. “You should probably load this,” he told Serena, handing it back and indicating the bandoleras crisscrossed on her chest.

  While she loaded the Mauser, Ammon inventoried his saddlebags—tortillas and four cans of salmon that Ma had insisted he take along. He had, because he was a dutiful son, and figured that if he ran out of ammunition, he could chuck the cans at the guerillas. He took out the little can opener Aunt Loisa had given him in the lumberyard and worked it around the top.

  When he finished without lacerating his fingers, he looked up to see Serena watching his every motion. His heart softened a little more to see her hunger. “It’s canned salmon,” he told her, all the while perfectly aware that neither word registered in her mind. “I’ll show you.”

  He took out a tortilla and set it on a rock, then scooped the canned salmon into the center with his fingers. “Use the tortilla like a plate,” he said, holding it out to her. “You can eat the salmon with your fingers.”

  Without hesitation, she took the tortilla from him, careful to hold it level. She paused only a moment when she brought the first bite of salmon to her lips, then downed it. Her eyes widened. “Fish,” she said.

  Ammon nodded. “Salmon comes from the Pacific Northwest, where it rains all the time and nobody shoots at anyone else,” he explained, giving her three bits of information that had no place in her world, or his, either, come to think of it. “Maybe we should all move there. How about it, Serena?”

  She wasn’t listening to his gentle teasing, focusing her heart and soul on the salmon that everyone in El Paso’s lumberyard had grown weary of. Her expression told him he had given her something priceless. He watched her, suddenly aware of the education he was getting, free of charge and courtesy of the enemy, if he could call Serena an enemy.

  Serena didn’t waste a scrap. She carefully spread the last bit of salmon around the tortilla with her dirty fingers. She folded each side in on itself until she had a tidy package, not losing a single bite. She held it out to Ammon politely, but he shook his head. Even if he hadn’t eaten anything since he had polished off his beans at the border, he knew he had eaten more recently than she.

  When she finished, she looked at him with a frown. “How does it get into the can?” she asked.

  He considered the
question and realized that he probably didn’t know any more about the process than she did. “Perhaps the cans just lie on the ocean floor and the salmon curl up in them,” he teased.

  At first, he regretted his foolishness when she nodded, serious. He changed his mind. His lame explanation probably made more sense than trying to describe a big factory where thousands of fish were cleaned and packed.

  It hardly mattered. Here they were, twenty miles inside Mexico and he was so tired he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. It was time to level with Serena Camacho, late of one guerilla army or the other, who wanted to go AWOL from the revolution and needed an escort home.

  First things first. He took the can and started to bury it, but she stopped him. When she gestured, he handed the odorous can to her. She went to the spring and washed it out using sand. When it was clean, she dipped the can in the spring and drank from it.

  “Very good. You have a cup now,” he told her, impressed with her resourcefulness. He handed her the lid, sharp where the can opener had carved little demon ridges. “Careful now.”

  She washed it the same way, then took a scrap of leather from the saddlebag he had taken off the dead horse. She wrapped it around half of the lid, giving herself a safe way to hold it, then wrapped it in the remaining bit of leather. “I could probably kill someone with this,” she said.

  You probably could, he reminded himself, unnerved. Maybe she was more of a soldadera than he thought.

  She interpreted his expression correctly and smiled. “I would not hurt you, señor, because you helped me.”

  “I’m relieved,” he said in English, then switched back to Spanish when she frowned. “It’s this way, señorita: I think neither of us dare to travel by daylight. You are trying to leave the army and go home, and I am a Mormon trying to get back to Colonia García and find my wife.”

  “You lost your wife?” she asked, interested.