I walk and I walk. Really, I hobble to another village. I am still weak, but nimble enough to take on The Beast. I have both food and money now, Serafina’s parting gifts.
I listen for the reeench of wheels, a whistle-scream. Signs that The Beast is coming. Maybe this will be my last stretch on the train. Serafina said that to my dream I am close close.
I have been told where to wait. In time, with a great hiss of hot breath, The Beast stops in this place. Once again I am hiding close by in the tall weeds, awaiting my chance to haul myself up when the wheels begin to grind and screech, when once more it begins to race.
I look at the horned B burned into my palm. Beast Rider. Instead of raising fear, the small brand gives me power.
It is daylight. A bad time to try this. People are milling along the tracks, waiting for something in this poorest of poor places. Some carry clubs. To stop me and the other riders?
Another beating. In spite of my brand, a pulse of panic grabs me. I nearly turn back.
“What are they waiting for?” I whisper to a fellow Beast Rider.
“Us.”
From imagined blows I cringe.
“To help us board, Chavo Viejo.”
“How do you know?”
“I have been here—three times before. This is a place of good people.”
The breath of The Beast begins its fierce panting. Like hell-gasps. My heart begins to drum. Nearly a year has passed since I have faced the brute. Another year before that. I am out of practice. I look at my hand. The B. Then inside I say, I can do this. And I know I can.
These people, it turns out, they are mostly mothers. Maybe they have lost their husbands or brothers, their daughters or their sons. Now they stand fast beside The Beast, as my fellow rider says, determined to help us. As I rush from hiding to scramble on, like a warrior from a story I have heard, one such woman approaches. A heavy one with a do-not-fool-with-me look. Arms folded, she takes a firm stance when up comes a police.
“Váyase, señora,” barks the poli. “Go.”
“No.”
He strikes her with a fist.
“Out of my way.”
This rock of a woman, she says nothing but holds firm.
He strikes her again.
I can no longer stand this, hitting a woman who is trying to defend me. Like a snake I strike back. I am weak and have no weapon so, with my ragged teeth, I bite him.
“¡Cabrón!”
The poli curses and grabs for his gun.
Warrior Woman swats it away.
Eyes murderous, the poli whirls and goes after his gun—and after easier prey.
All along the tracks the story is the same. The locals standing up for us against the police. Sometimes arrested, sometimes injured. The local people, young and old, heroes to us Beast Riders.
I look at Warrior Woman with thanks.
She presses a plastic bag of food into my hand. Softly she says, “You could be my own boy Juan. Que Dios te bendiga.”
“Que Dios la bendiga,” I say.
At last the train begins pulling away and I dash for it. Then, in a big confusion of scuffling and shouting, I am atop The Beast again.
Somewhere, though the train is in motion, somebody is strumming a guitar, singing “México lindo y querido,” an old song Papi sang in our milpita. The voice is so sweet, so clear, my heart aches.
“—just tell them that I am sleeping, tell them to bring me back here, if I should die far from you, Mexico lovely and dear.”
All along The Beast, people begin singing, even not-Mexicans. “México lindo y querido, si muero lejos de ti . . . ” They sing a prayer, an absolute prayer.