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Hunter edged closer now, listening. Gary asked, “Grupo Delta, how long have they been in your territory?”
Juan said, “One year, more or less. They came from further west, coming because of the increase of Border Patrol Agents in Arizona and New Mexico. They scare everyone, and they are big, a big organization that smuggles everything. People, but also narcotics, and they bring weapons from the United States and sell them to the Zetas and La Familia Michoacana. That business provides Grupo Delta with additional protection because no one wants to cross either of those cartels. They are killers. But so is Delta.”
Hunter left the room so Juan would feel freer to talk. She went to the long table and sat down across from the young girl who had been at the end of the line.
The girl was calm, and looked at Hunter like they were sitting across from each other in a library. Hunter saw the girl had dark eyes that were almost black, high-cheekbones, a very pretty face, and long black hair pulled back in a thick single braid that
reached her waist. The girl’s lustrous, shiny hair reminded Hunter of Apache Tears when they were polished. She wore a bright red shawl over a white Mexican blouse and a dark blue skirt. Hunter had seen the worn sandals earlier on her brown feet. Hunter pulled a yellow legal pad in front of her to write notes. She took the girl to the height and weight scales, and wrote it down: Height-58 inches, Weight-74 pounds. They returned to the table, same seats, and Hunter asked the girl questions.
This was her fourteenth summer and her name was Anda Tumecas de Cordova, from a house on the rim of the Barranca Quebrada, The Broken Canyon, and a long, hard walk from Batopilas into the looming vastness of the Sierra Madres. She started north three weeks ago because her family - her mother, father, two brothers and three sisters, perished last winter while leading a burro down the thin trail to the bottom of the Broken Canyon. An earthquake rocked the canyon and sheared off that portion of the trail where her family had been. They fell, she said, twelve hundred meters to the bottom of the canyon. Hunter realized they had fallen for almost three-quarters of a mile.
Hunter asked the girl how she knew they fell that far. The girl looked at her, said that she saw them fall, that she had been late, and arrived at the rim of the canyon when the earthquake knocked her to her knees and her family off the cliff face. Hunter swallowed a lump in her throat and continued to write things down. When she finished, they continued talking.
Anda said there was no one left, no relatives or family or neighbors. She was alone. Anda told her of subsisting on wild game she caught and plants she gathered from the mountains and canyons, but it wasn’t enough. She was slowly starving. Anda said she would have stayed and starved to death if the filthy animal, Anacleto Holguin, hadn’t come.
“You, as a woman, know how it is, yes?” She leaned a little towards Hunter. “When men want you and they have the power? They think they can buy you, or take you, and you have no say. Anacleto is a bandido, a big jefe, and he thought he could do anything.”
“What happened?”
“He came into my casita, he and his men. Cleto told them to stay at the front door, that he would have his fun inside first, and then they could enjoy themselves. He forced me into the bedroom, exposing himself and telling me what he was going to do with it. He was too busy sweating and huffing as he approached to see me put my hand on the plate where I had eaten the night before. When he reached for me, I stabbed his penis with a fork.” The faintest of smiles touched Anda’s mouth. “He squawked, like a chicken, and fainted to the floor. I went through his pockets and took his money, then left through the window. I used the money in Batopilas to buy my passage north.”
Hunter thought about it: this fourteen year old child, cool as ice, stabbing the guy, and then going through his pockets with four men standing outside, waiting to rape and murder her. Then she had walked for two days and nights to Batopilas, where she located a smuggler and headed toward the United States. Smugglers didn’t hang out in the better parts of town, and Hunter thought of Anda making her way through the rough neighborhoods, talking to criminals and other low-lifes to locate Juan and his brother.
“What will you do with me now?” Anda asked.
“You’re a minor, so we’ll contact the Mexican Consul and have you taken to him across the border in the morning.”
“Your Spanish is very good.”
“Thank you.”
Anda looked at the book Hunter had placed on the table when she first sat down. “What is that?”
“It’s a book of stories by a writer named Hemingway.”
“Is he someone you admire?”
“I like the way he writes, the way he tells stories.”
“I think I would like to read him someday. Is he in Spanish?”
“Yes, he’s in many languages.”
Anda nodded, “When I am able, I will read your Hemingway.”
“I think you would enjoy it.”
Anda looked around the room for a moment, then back at Hunter. “When you return me to Mexico, I am going to cross again.” It wasn’t a boast, but like a fact or some information you tell someone that needs to know.
Hunter said, “And I will try to catch you.”
“It is the way things are, no?” Anda said. “In another life, I think we would be friends.”
***
The next morning, Hunter rode with the Detention Officer as he took the VR’s, the Voluntary Returns, to Ojinaga. They met the Mexican officials at the international bridge and Hunter pulled Anda aside as the group got out of the van. “Here is some money,” she tried to hand it to Anda, but the little Tarahumara wouldn’t take it.
“I still have a little,” Anda smiled, white teeth bright in her face, “If we meet again, I will allow you to buy me lunch.” She walked away then, joining the other two women and the Mexican officials as they returned to Mexico.
