to shoot you, too?”
Pilar stilled on the ground, breathing heavily. Santiago. It was Santiago. He was safe, and she was not alone. She reached up to pull his hand away from her mouth.
“I could not see you. I was afraid that you had left me alone,” she mumbled.
“Silly girl,” he muttered back. He raised his head from the ground and peered in the direction of the forest. Pilar stopped her movement, listening with him. The gunshots had stopped, and all was quiet in the forest. Eerily quiet.
Pilar licked her lips and swallowed heavily. “Santiago, who would be this close to the ranch? Who would bring guns to this place?”
Santiago shook his head slowly, then pushed himself up from the ground. “I do not know, Sister, but it is not our place to find out, and it’s far too dangerous. We must get back to the ranch and warn the others that there has been trouble.”
Pilar stood, placing a hand on her brother’s arm. “Santiago, they may be hurt. We must at least find out.”
Santiago looked at her as though she had lost her mind, then shook his head and turned away. “Pilar, there are times when I don’t understand you. They are strangers. They are not our problem. You put too much of your heart out to other people, and it is bound to get you hurt someday. I am not going to find out who these people are, and neither are you.” He stopped and turned toward her, his brows drawn down over his eyes. “Pilar, it is too dangerous. Surely you can see that?”
Pilar pressed her lips together and squared her shoulders, planting her feet in place. “Santiago Arroyo, where is your humanity? Those are people in the woods, and they may be hurt. Even dying. They may be our friends, and they may need help. The Good Lord tells us to help those in need, no matter who they are.”
The boy turned to face his sister, his brows drawn down in a dark frown. “Pilar, it is dangerous–”
She paused for a moment, then found her opening. “It would be an adventure, Santiago,” she replied, her eyes dancing. “Think of it. Perhaps they are cowboys, and they have killed banditos(italics). Perhaps we will be heroes for saving them.” She suppressed a smile and watched her brother’s face soften. Santiago could never turn down an adventure, and she always kept this as her final argument for any situation.
“Perhaps, if we were careful…” he murmured.
“I am going with or without you,” she continued, turning toward the forest where the gunshots had sounded out. “Do you want to be the one left behind?”
She began to walk quickly toward the forest, keeping low beneath the stalks of the cornfield so that she was hidden from view. Behind her, she heard a low moan and then Santiago’s footsteps, and smiled. Her brother was brave and strong, but he could never win out against her arguments. He moved up beside her, crouching low and putting a hand out to stop her. She allowed him to move in front of her, knowing that he would protect her with his own life, and keep her safe from whatever lay ahead. He was much bigger and stronger than she was, and the sight of him sheltering her warmed her heart and boosted her courage. Whatever happened, she knew, they would face it together.
They crept out of the cornfield and crossed the wide lane before them to enter the woodland. This was an old wood, with tall, strong trees above and a range of soft grasses and ferns below. The soft moss and fern matter on the floor of the forest cushioned their feet and silenced their footsteps, allowing them to dart from tree to tree with no sound. Soon they had come to a large clearing in the woods. Smoke drifted up from the clearing, indicating a campfire there.
Santiago turned and put a finger to his lips, motioning to himself and to the clearing ahead. He pointed to Pilar, then firmly to the ground. Pilar nodded. He was going ahead to see what was in the clearing, and she was to stay here. She watching him drop to the ground and crawl forward toward the opening, keeping his body close to the ground and below the ferns and shrubs of the forest. When he got to the clearing, he peaked around the tree in front of him, then stood and slowly stepped from behind the tree. Turning, he gestured to Pilar to come to him.
She ran through the forest as quietly as she could, anxious to see what had happened in the clearing. She caught up with her brother quickly and glanced around the tree to the clearing. Her breath caught in her throat at what she saw.
“Are they dead?” she asked quietly.
“I would say so,” her brother answered, matching her tone. “They have not moved.”
Before them, five men lay on the ground, riddled with bullet holes. One of the men had been shot in the face, and was obviously dead. The others had wounds in their chests, abdomens and even legs. None of them moved.
Pilar stepped carefully into the clearing. “This is a fresh campfire. Still burning. Some of these men were camping here.”
Santiago grunted, moving toward the men. “These two are certainly dead,” he replied, looking down at the men before him. “Mexican men, roughly dressed, and another there,” he pointed to a third Mexican man, laying a few feet from the first two. He looked up toward his sister. “These men have been traveling. They are filthy and stink.”
Pilar had moved toward the men on the other side of the campfire, and knelt down beside the first. She looked up at her brother, shocked. “These are white men, Santiago.”
Her brother raced to her side, dropping down to his knees beside her. “Americans,” he breathed. He reached out to touch the man’s forehead, then drew his hand back. “What are they doing here? Why would white men have come this far south? To engage in a gunfight with Mexican ranchers?” He moved toward the stack of gear sitting next to the man, and began to rummage through it.
Pilar moved to the other man and looked down at him. Americans. Her mother was American, and had told her stories of the people in her homeland, but Pilar had never met any of them herself. She stared at the man at her feet, wondering what had brought him here, to meet this fate in the woods. He had a strong, kind face, though he looked as though he’d been living rough for several weeks. Her eyes ran down his chest to his belt, then quickly back up. His chest was rising and falling. This man was still alive.
“Santiago!” she muttered sharply, drawing her brother to him. “This man is alive. He has been shot in the thigh and chest, but he is breathing.” She glanced up at her brother, her eyes sharp. “We must get him home so that Mother can tend to his wounds.”
Santiago glanced down, ready to protest his sister’s generosity, and noticed that the man’s eyes were open. He closed his mouth and ducked toward the injured man. “Please,” the American breathed. “Water. Please help me.” The man’s eyes rolled back before he could say more, and his head dropped back to the ground.
Santiago looked up at his sister and nodded. “You are right. We must help this man, and quickly. Go get the horse. We must get him into the wagon.”
***
Pilar galloped ahead of the wagon on her horse, rushing toward the ranch. She was the faster rider, and had ridden ahead of her brother and the wagon to warn her mother and the other ranch hands about the situation. Carrying the American to the wagon had been very hard work, and she was already exhausted. She pressed on, though, fearing for the man’s life. Fearing for the possible consequences of his death. Santiago rattled along behind her, driving the wagon at a slower pace to avoid harming the already injured man.
Before long she was at the
