COME MORNING THE RIVER was running higher yet, but the rain had stopped, and so had the wind. The skies were still leaden. Had Dolly moved on by, or was this merely the intermission before Act Two?
We ate breakfast, the last of the cold cereal. Out of earshot of the boy, Rio and I talked strategy. Here’s the question we kept coming back to: Did it make sense to sit tight and see if Dolly was gone for good, with even a small chance that Carlos was stalking us as we spoke?
We decided to get back on the river and put a bunch of miles behind us—twenty, thirty, even forty. Given the speed of the river, it might even be possible to make it all the way—forty-seven miles—to the takeout at Dryden Crossing. We would arrive days early, but the upside would be huge. The three of us would be safely off the river, and a pinpointed manhunt for Carlos could begin.
By ten in the morning, with the clouds darkening ominously and thunder beginning to rumble, we had the raft and canoe rigged. Our spare life jacket was too large for Diego, but we managed to secure it snugly by attaching it to a harness around his waist and crotch that we improvised with extra raft straps.
We put our own life jackets on, clipped our rescue knives in place, and got out the guidebook. Hot Springs Rapid, a 3 or a 4 at normal levels, was waiting four miles downstream. “It might be all washed out,” Rio said. “Then again, it might’ve turned into a monster.”
From behind us, just then, from the rock where we’d left Diego sitting, came a sudden cry like the squeal of a small animal about to be slaughtered.
We spun around, and there was Carlos, with one hand around the boy’s neck. The other held a big pistol, and the pistol was pointed at us. “Good morning, Texas,” he cackled. “Good morning, Carolina! Hello, my friends, did you sleep well?”
His arms and his face looked even worse than before, like he’d battled the river and lost, but the evil grin on his face said otherwise, and he still had his backpack. “What’s the matter, boys? Cat got your tongues?”
Diego squirmed, broke free, and ran to us. I held him to me. He buried his face in my life jacket. He was too frightened to even look.
Carlos taunted him in Spanish. I think he called him a scared rabbit, a frightened little chicken.
“Take those knives off your life jackets, boys, holders and all, and toss them over here. You toss them anywhere else and I will shoot one of you dead as an example to the other. It will be you, Carolina. I’ll keep Texas alive to row the raft down to San Rosendo Canyon, where I asked you boys to take me in the first place. You should have done as I asked, no? What’s keeping you? Toss the knives over here now!”
We did as he said. He stepped forward and picked them up, his pistol on us all the while. He clipped the knives to his belt, one on each hip.
The killer sneered at us. “Now the book.”
Diego whimpered. I felt like whimpering, too. All I could think of was how idiotic I had been all along, starting with hitchhiking from Alpine to Terlingua. Not calling my parents from the Starlight, not telling them my uncle was in Alaska, not giving them the chance to tell me to come straight home if they thought it was best. Why didn’t I even give them the chance?
Carlos sat down on a rock with the guidebook, pistol at his side, and began to flip through the pages. He grinned when he found the page he was looking for. “Only four miles from the cave to my road up San Rosendo Canyon. The book says that the road is an ‘illegal immigration highway.’ I like the sound of that. Sounds like a good place for me and my little chicken to catch a ride.”
“We could let you off there,” Rio said, “but the road is not the kind of highway you’re thinking about—just a rough four-wheel-drive track. Chances are, it’s been destroyed in the last twenty-four hours. All the side canyons have been flash-flooding, and San Rosendo Canyon is the biggest one on the Mexican side. You can look it up. San Rosendo is flooding for sure.”
I could see what Rio was doing: building the case for Carlos keeping us alive. He would need us to take him farther down the river.
“We’ll find out soon,” Carlos said with a smirk. “It’s good to be traveling with an expert such as yourself. This Hot Springs Rapid, where San Rosendo Canyon meets the river . . . the book says it’s Class 3 or Class 4. How high do the numbers go, Texas?”
“Five means expert kayakers and rafters can attempt it, but it’s extremely dicey. Six means don’t even think about it. But the numbers in this book mean nothing during a flood. They only apply up to five or six thousand cubic feet per second, which is as high as the man who wrote the book ever saw. What we’ve got in the river now is probably five times that much water, maybe more.”
“I got this far in a rowboat,” Carlos scoffed. “All the same, I want you to row the raft the next four miles.”
“How come, if you had no problem with the rowboat? Take a look. The only rapid between here and there is only Class 1. Did you have a problem in that rapid with the rowboat yesterday?”
“Enough of this,” the thug barked. “Throw me your life jacket, Carolina.”
Rio unbuckled his, and tossed it. “Here, take mine. Dylan is in the canoe, and the canoe is more likely to capsize.”
Carlos laughed. “Okay by me, Texas. After all, I’ll be with you. If you have no life jacket, you’ll be extra careful with the raft. It’s not only my little chicken’s life you need to watch out for. Why the long faces, boys? Did you find out that little Diego can speak after all? Speak En-glish, even? Did my little chicken keep you up last night telling wild stories about me? Did he tell you what happens to judges who are too stupid to take the big money that would enable their families to live well for the rest of their lives?”
Rio feigned surprise. “What are you talking about? He told us he wished you would take him to his mother in Chicago after all, instead of back to his grandmother in Mexico.”
“Watch your step, Texas,” Carlos snarled. “You’re in the bullring with no sword. Untie the raft, both of you together. Then turn it around so I can step into the front with the little chicken under my wing. When we get to San Rosendo Canyon, don’t do anything stupid or I will dump your bullet-ridden carcasses in the Rio Bravo. Do you understand me, Carolina?”
“I understand,” I answered, trying to disguise my terror.
“Do you understand me, Texas?”
“Sí,” Rio muttered.
“Carolina! Did you hear that? Your primo just copped an attitude. Texas shouldn’t have done that. It makes me suspicious of him, deeply suspicious. As for you, Carolina, I have some old gangster wisdom for you. We have a saying that goes like this: Desconfía de tu mejor amigo como de tu peor enemigo. Trust your best friend as you would your worst enemy.”
The monster waved his big pistol and laughed derisively. He picked the life jacket up and put it on, slowly and one-handed. Lightning snapped downriver, its thunderclap reverberating through the canyon as we went to untie the boats.
At the trunk of the mesquite where we had tied, Rio and I knelt to get at the knots. “Should we land above Hot Springs, or blow through the rapid?” Rio whispered.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” I whispered back.
“If I’m wrong about the road being washed out, he has no reason to keep us alive.”
“If you don’t try to pull out before the rapid, or pretend you can’t, how’s he going to react to that?”
“Not sure . . . he’s capable of anything.”
“Hurry up, you clowns!” Carlos yelled.
“Time’s running out, Dylan.”
“You play it by ear, Rio, and we’ll hope for the best.”
“If he decides to try to hike out, I think he’ll hedge his bets and take us with him. It’s twelve miles to that ranch. If he doesn’t make it and has to turn back to the river, he’ll still need us. I’ll make sure he knows there will be more rapids as bad as Hot Springs so he doesn’t start thinking he can row the raft.”
By now we both had our knots undone. I couldn’t speak; I could barely breathe. I returned to the canoe in a fog of fear. The rain broke loose.
“Vamanos, muchachos!” our tormenter cackled. “Hop to, let’s get in the boats. Down the Rio Bravo I go, with two rabbits and a chicken!”