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.
Sí.
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.
Qué tiene? he said.
Tómelo.
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?
Sí. Para el güero. El güero herido.
He turned the heart in his hand and looked down at her.
No era herido en el corazón, 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 Muñoz 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.
Él está? he said.
Sí. Él está.
Él vive?
Él 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 Niño horse.
Yeah. That good Niño 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. Qué dice el médico?
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 qué 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 médico, Billy said. Dónde vive el médico.
THE DOCTOR’S MOZO unlocked and unlatched the door cut into the wooden gate and stood there just inside the darkened zaguán. He did not speak but only waited to hear the supplicant’s tale. When Billy was done he nodded. Bueno, he said. Pásale.