AFTER VI0LARM3 THEY THOUGHT I WAS DEAD, BUT I SURVIVED TO MAKE THEM PAY ONE BY ONE She was lying on the floor, her dress all torn, two men holding her. Rafael looked at his wife for the last time. Carolina was in the hands of the very One-Eyed Garza knelt next to her with that smile that promised pure horror. “Carolina!” shouted Rafael trying to get up, but the coyote Salazar put his boot on his back. “Don’t worry, buddy,” he said mockingly. Let your wife learn how things are done here. In the background, Carolina’s younger sister, María, a little girl, cried tied up. “Let her go, she’s just a girl, bastards,” Carolina pleaded with a broken voice. The coyote let out a dry laugh. Girls grow up fast in times of revolution. And then he put the gun to the back of Rafael’s neck. Say goodbye to your husband, you useless girl. The shot resounded like thunder. Rafael’s body fell lifeless, kicking up dust and blood. The one-eyed man pulled her inside while the coyote rode his horse carrying Maria with him. And Carolina was left lying on the ground without reaction. After she had been humiliated and used by these men in the worst ways, she let out a mute scream, the cry of one who had just lost everything, her husband and her little sister, in a single night of fire and blood. But, buddy, those bastards made a mistake. They underestimated what a widow destroyed by life is capable of when she decides to seek justice into her own hands. Three days later, Carolina opened her eyes under the relentless sun of Chihuahua. The ranch still smelled of ash and dried blood. The fire-blackened walls reminded him that nothing would ever be the same again. He crawled to the well, drew water with trembling hands, washed his face and felt how the cold restored some sanity, even if it was only a thin thread, so as not to break completely. Rafael was still there, lying where he had fallen, covered in flies. Carolina looked at him for a long time without tears anymore, because her tears had dried up that first night when she screamed until she was hoarse.

Now there was only a black void where before there was love, hope, a future. She took a rusty shovel from the half-burnt shed and fit for hours under the mesquite where Rafael had proposed to her 5 years ago. The earth was hard, cracked by drought, and each shovel tore pieces of skin from his hands. But he did not stop. The physical pain was almost a relief compared to that other pain that had no name, the one that pierced her chest and stole her air every time she remembered Maria’s face when she was taken away. When he finished burying him, he did not pray. For what? God hadn’t been there when they needed Him. He stood in front of the makeshift tomb in his dress dirty with dirt and blood and promised something in silence. He would not rest until he brought Maria back, even if he had to crawl all over the Chihuahuan desert, even if he had to kill every son of a bitch that touched her. That promise was the only thing that remained of humanity. He walked towards the village dragging his feet with his throat dry and his soul even drier. The sun burned the back of his neck, but he no longer felt anything. El pueblo, un caserío polvoriento de adobe y miseria, la recibió con miradas de lástima y silencio incómodo. Todos sabían lo que había pasado. Todos habían oído los gritos esa noche y ninguno había movido un dedo. La cantina olía a mezcal rancio y sudor. Carolina empujó las puertas y todos voltearon a verla. Las conversaciones murieron. El comisario estaba sentado en su mesa de siempre, con la panza reposando sobre el cinturón y un plato de frijoles a medio comer. Levantó la vista y en sus ojos Carolina vio algo peor que indiferencia. Vio miedo. Señora Mendoza empezó limpiándose la boca con el dorso de la mano. Se llevaron a mi hermana, dijo Carolina con voz ronca. ¿Usted sabe quién fue el coyote Salazar y su gente. El comisario miró alrededor nervioso, como buscando ayuda que no iba a llegar. Mire, doña Carolina, lo que le pasó es terrible, de veras, pero pero nada. Usted es la autoridad aquí. Vaya por ella. El hombre se rió sin ganas, un sonido hueco que retumbó en el silencio de la cantina. Yo ir tras el coyote. Señora, ese hombre tiene 30 rifles y conoce cada rincón de la sierra. Yo tengo dos ayudantes y medio cerebro entre los tres. Sería un suicidio. Entonces es un cobarde. El comisario se puso rojo, pero no se levantó. Sabía que tenía razón. Son tiempos de revolución, doña. Cada quien cuida lo suyo. Si Villa no puede con estos desgraciados, ¿qué quiere que haga yo? Carolina se inclinó sobre la mesa, tan cerca que pudo oler el mezcal en su aliento. Mi hermana tiene 16 años. ¿Sabe lo que le van a hacer? ¿Sabe a dónde la van a vender? El comisario apartó la mirada, tragó saliva. Lo siento, de verdad, pero no puedo ayudarla. Carolina escupió en el suelo a centímetros de sus botas, que se pudra en el infierno, comisario. Salió de ahí con las manos temblando de rabia. La plaza estaba vacía, el viento arrastraba polvo entre las piedras. Se sentó en la fuente seca, con la cabeza entre las manos, sintiendo como todo se desmoronaba, sin ayuda, sin armas, sin caballo. ¿Cómo iba a encontrar a María? El desierto se tragaba a los hombres armados y ella no era más que una mujer rota. Doña Carolina levantó la vista. Un anciano estaba frente a ella, encorbado por los años, pero con ojos que todavía brillaban con algo parecido a la dignidad. Don Esteban, el herrero del pueblo, el único que había tenido huevos para enfrentarse al coyote años atrás y vivir para contarlo, aunque le costara tres dedos de la mano izquierda.

“Don Esteban, I know what happened,” she said, her voice breaking, “and I know that no one here is going to lift a finger. Everyone is afraid. I’m afraid too. I’m not going to lie to you, but I can’t stay silent.” He handed her something wrapped in an old rag. Carolina unwrapped it. A heavy revolver with worn wooden grips. She recognized the gun immediately. It was her father’s revolver, the one he taught her to shoot when she was a child, before pneumonia took him. Since your father left it to me when he died, he told me to give it to you if I ever really needed it.” Don Esteban closed his eyes. I think that day has come. Carolina took the gun, felt its familiar weight in her hand. Inside the rag were five bullets, five shots. Don Esteban said, “Use them well. The coyote makes his camp where the river breaks between the red rocks past the mountains. But girl, you won’t get there alive walking alone. That road swallows men up. I don’t care.” She should care. If she dies in the desert, who’s going to save María? Carolina stood up and tucked the revolver into the waistband of her dress. “Then I won’t die.” Don Esteban looked at her with something between admiration and pity. “God be with you, Doña Carolina. God wasn’t there when I needed him. Now I’m alone.” She walked north, toward where the sun fell like molten lead, toward the mountains that rose on the horizon like the broken teeth of a dead animal. She had no food, not enough water, no horse, only five bullets, and a pain so great it could set the entire desert on fire. Each step on the cracked earth was a renewed promise. She would find María, even if she had to crawl over glass, even if the desert sucked every last drop of blood from her. The first day she walked until her legs trembled, the sun tore at her skin, the dry air burned her lungs. She drank water carefully, knowing she had to ration it, even though her throat screamed for more. As night fell, she took shelter under a twisted palo verde tree, shivering with cold, because the Chihuahuan Desert is a furnace by day and an icy tomb by night. She didn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw María crying, she saw the coyote smiling, she saw Rafael falling dead. On the second day, the world began to unravel at the edges. The heat hit her like invisible fists. The horizon danced, the rocks shifted. She saw water where there was none, she saw shadows that didn’t exist. She stumbled, fell, got up, stumbled again, her hands bled from scraping against the stones, her lips split, her tongue swelled, but she kept going, because to stop was to die, and to die was to abandon María. When the sun reached its cruelest point, Carolina could take no more. She dragged herself to a withered mesquite tree, let herself fall into the miserable shade it offered, and closed her eyes, thinking that perhaps Don Esteban was right, that the desert was going to swallow her up like so many others. Thirst tore at her throat; she could no longer feel her feet.

The revolver weighed like lead at her waist, useless, because she hadn’t even seen a soul in two days. And then she heard something, slow, cautious footsteps. She opened her eyes with effort. She saw a shadow silhouetted against the sun, a tall man, with skin tanned by the desert and black eyes like wells. He carried a carbine across his back and clothes that looked like they belonged to the Taraumaras of the mountains. Carolina tried to reach for the revolver, but his hands didn’t respond. The man knelt beside her and offered her a leather canteen. “Take it slowly.” She drank like a desperate animal. The cool water burned her dry throat. She coughed, spat, drank again. “Who are you?” she murmured in a raspy voice. “My name is Joaquín,” the man said. “And you’re going to die here if you keep walking alone.” Carolina looked at him distrustfully, with what little survival instinct she had left. “What do you want? Nothing, but I know where you’re going.” Joaquín pointed north, toward the mountains. “Are you looking for the coyote’s camp?” Carolina’s heart leapt violently. “How do you know? Because you’re not the first woman to come walking through the desert with that look.” He paused. “And because I saw when they took your sister,” Carolina felt the world stop. She grabbed his arm with a strength she didn’t know she had. “Did you see her? Did you see María? A blonde girl crying. Yes, I saw her. Where is she? Where are they holding her?” Joaquín carefully broke free. He stood up. “She’s alive for now, but if you want to get to her, you need help. I can take you. Why?” Joaquín looked toward the mountains, and there was something dark in his eyes, something that looked like guilt. “Because I have my reasons.” He shouldered his carbine. “Rest for an hour. Then we’ll continue. There’s no time to lose.” Carolina didn’t trust Joaquín. How could she trust a man who appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the desert, claiming to have seen María, offering help without asking for anything in return? In northern Mexico, no one did anything for nothing, but she didn’t have a choice either. Alone, she would die in two more days. With him, at least she had a chance of arriving alive. She rested for that hour under the mesquite tree, forcing herself to ration the water Joaquín gave her, forcing herself to ignore the pain in her feet, crushed by the stones. Joaquín sat a few meters away, chewing something that looked like dried jerky, his eyes fixed on the horizon, as if he could see things she couldn’t see, couldn’t speak. And that was somehow worse than if she were speaking.
When the sun began to set, Joaquín got up without a word. Carolina limped after him, clenching her teeth to keep from complaining. They walked for hours, already in the cool of the evening, making the journey more bearable. Joaquín knew every stone, every bush, every shadow. He moved like a wild animal, making no noise, leaving no trace. Carolina tried to keep up, but every muscle in her body screamed for her to stop. “How much longer?” she asked when she couldn’t take it anymore. A day, maybe two. It depends on whether the coyote trackers are around. Carolina felt her heart clench. They’re looking for us. They’re always looking. Joaquín spat on the ground. The coyote doesn’t forgive someone for escaping. And you’re a witness to what they did. That makes you dangerous. I didn’t escape. They left me alive. That’s worse. Joaquín looked at her for the first time since they started walking. It means they didn’t care or they wanted you to suffer longer. The words fell like stones in Carolina’s stomach. She had thought the same thing during those three days lying on the ranch, wondering why they didn’t kill her properly. Now she had the answer, and it hurt more than any blow. They camped when night had completely fallen, without a fire, because the smoke could be seen for miles in the desert. Joaquín gave her more ceesina and water, and Carolina ate in silence, feeling her body yearning for more, but knowing she had to restrain herself. The desert night was cold, so cold that her bones ached, and she wrapped herself in the old serape that Joaquín lent her without saying anything. “Why are you helping me?” Carolina asked suddenly, breaking the silence that had become unbearable. Joaquín didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the stars, those stars that shone so clearly in the northern sky that they seemed within reach. “I told you, I have my reasons.”

That’s no answer. It’s the only one you’re going to get for now. Carolina tightened her grip on the revolver she carried at her waist, feeling the cold metal against her skin. “How do I know you’re not going to hand me over to them, Joaquín?” He laughed, but it was a dry laugh, humorless. “If I wanted to hand you over, I would have done so already. They pay well for anyone who brings information.” He turned to look at her, “but I don’t work for the coyote, not anymore.” Those last two words hung in the air like smoke. Not anymore. Carolina felt something churn in her stomach. Did you work for him? We’ve all worked for someone at some point. Joaquín lay down on his mat. “Sleep. Tomorrow we’re going to walk all day.” But Carolina didn’t sleep. She lay awake staring at Joaquín’s back, wondering what kind of man he was, what secrets he carried, and, above all, wondering if she had made a mistake by accepting his help, because something in the way he spoke, the way he moved, told her that Joaquín wasn’t a simple tracker, he was something more, something dangerous. At dawn, they continued walking. The landscape changed little by little. The flat desert gave way to rocky hills, dry canyons, crags that rose like sleeping giants. The heat was still brutal, but at least there was more shade. Joaquín pointed north, where a dark line could be seen on the horizon. The mountains, that’s where they are. How much longer? If we keep going like this, we’ll get there tomorrow by nightfall. But we’re going to have to be careful. There are places where the coyote has lookouts. Carolina nodded, quickening her pace, even though her feet were bleeding inside her torn boots. Every hour that passed was another hour that María spent in the hands of those animals. Every hour was an eternity. At midday, Joaquín stopped suddenly, raised his hand for silence, bent down, and examined the ground. Carolina approached slowly, her heart pounding. What’s wrong? Footprints. Three horses, maybe four, passed by a few hours ago.
Joaquín stood up and scanned the horizon. They’re heading south, probably trackers coming from the camp. Did they see us? No, but that means they’re close. We have to move faster. They walked for hours without stopping, jumping from shadow to shadow, avoiding the ridges where their silhouettes would be visible against the sky. Carolina felt like her lungs were going to explode, her legs were going to give way, but she didn’t complain. Joaquín didn’t slow down either, and at some point Carolina began to respect him for that. He didn’t treat her like a fragile woman; he treated her as an equal. As evening fell, they reached a narrow canyon where a trickle of water ran between the rocks. Joaquín knelt and drank directly from the stream, and Carolina did the same. The water was cold, almost freezing, and tasted heavenly after hours of dust and thirst. “We’re going to stay here tonight,” Joaquín said. “It’s a good place to hide, and you need to rest those feet.” Carolina took off her boots and saw the burst blisters and raw skin. Joaquín took a rag from his backpack and some green leaves that Carolina didn’t recognize. “Governor,” he explained, “the Taraumara use it for wounds.” He chewed the leaves into a green paste. He spread it on Carolina’s feet with almost delicate care. She winced in pain but didn’t complain. Joaquín bandaged her feet with the rag and pressed it down tightly. “Tomorrow you’ll be able to walk better.” “Why do you know so much about the desert?” Carolina asked. Joaquín was silent for a long moment. “I was raised here. The Taraumara found me when I was a child. They taught me how to survive.” “What happened to your family?” Joaquín’s eyes darkened. The same thing that happened to yours, Carolina felt something close to understanding, a connection, but she also felt something else, distrust, because Joaquín still wasn’t telling her the whole truth. “And how did you end up with the coyote?” Joaquín stood up abruptly.
I’m going to find something to eat. Stay here. Don’t make a sound.” He disappeared among the rocks before Carolina could say anything else. She was left alone in the canyon, listening to the murmur of the water, feeling the night fall quickly as always in the desert, and in that silence, she realized something. Joaquín was running from his past as much as she was chasing hers. When he returned, he was carrying two dead rabbits, already skinned. He made a small fire between the rocks where the smoke wouldn’t be seen and roasted the meat in silence. Carolina ate with a fierce hunger, feeling her strength return to her body. Joaquín barely took a bite.

“Tomorrow,” she finally said, “we’re going to see the camp from afar. I need to know how many there are, how they’re armed, and I need to know if your sister is still there.” Carolina felt her breath catch in her throat. “What if she’s not there?” So we followed the trail. But she has to be. The coyote doesn’t just move from the camp; it’s his stronghold. And what are we going to do? Go in there with the two of us against 30 armed men. Joaquín looked her straight in the eyes. “No, we’re going to wait for the right moment, and when it comes, we’re going to go in fast, get your sister, and be gone before they notice. That’s suicide. This whole thing is suicide.” Joaquín lay back. “But it’s the only plan we have.” Carolina lay awake again, staring into the dying embers of the fire, thinking about María, wondering if she was still alive, if she still had hope. And thinking about Joaquín, about the secrets he carried, about the shadows she saw in his eyes, every time he spoke of the coyote, something didn’t add up. And Carolina knew it, but she didn’t have time to figure out what it was. She only had time to keep going, to trust enough to make it to camp, to clutch the revolver to her chest and pray that the five bullets would be enough. At dawn, Joaquín woke her with a tap on the shoulder. The sun was barely rising, painting the sky blood red. It’s time. Today we arrived. Carolina got up, put her boots on her bandaged feet, gritted her teeth against the pain. Joaquín handed her the canteen. Here, you’re going to need strength. She drank, nodded, and they began walking toward the mountains, toward the red rocks where the river broke, toward the place where María waited, unaware that her sister was coming for her. Or maybe she did. Maybe in some corner of her broken heart, María still had hope, and that hope was the only thing keeping Carolina alive. They climbed through narrow canyons, along paths that looked like goats had made them, over stones so sharp they cut. The landscape became wilder, more hostile. Twisted pines grew between the rocks. Short pines clung to the dry earth. The air smelled different up here. Of resin, of wet earth, of something ancient. “We’re close,” Joaquín whispered, “very close.” And then she saw smoke, a thin thread of smoke rising from a valley hidden between the mountains. The coyote’s camp. Carolina felt all the hatred, all the pain, all the rage she had carried for days gather in a burning spot in her chest. There it was, there were the men who had taken everything from her. And there, somewhere in that cursed camp, was María. Joaquín grabbed her arm, pulled her behind some rocks. “Wait, we can’t just get closer. We need a plan.” But Carolina wasn’t listening anymore. She was staring at the smoke, imagining the faces of those men, imagining the bullet entering the one-eyed man’s forehead, imagining the coyote falling dead. And for the first time in days, she smiled. Joaquín forced her back, away from the edge where the valley yawned like a wound in the mountain. Carolina struggled, but he was stronger and pulled her until they were hidden among the twisted pines that grew on the hillside. “Let me go,” Carolina hissed, “calm down. If they see us now, we’ll both die, and your sister will stay there forever.” The words fell like cold water on Carolina’s rage. Joaquín was right, and that made her even angrier, but she stayed still, breathing deeply, forcing herself to think clearly, even though her entire body screamed to run down and empty the revolver into the first son of a bitch she found. “We have to wait until nightfall,” Joaquín said. Observe, count how many there are, see where they have the women, look for the best place to enter and exit. The women, Carolina looked at him. There are more, there are always more. The coyote isn’t just a bandit, he’s a trafficker. He sells them on the border. That’s why your sister is still alive, she’s still valuable to him.

Carolina felt bile rise in her throat. She imagined María in the hands of those animals waiting to be sold like cattle, and she had to bite her lip until it bled to keep from screaming. They spent hours hidden among the motionless trees, watching. The camp was larger than Carolina had imagined. Shacks of adobe and wood scattered among the rocks. Corrals with horses, smoking campfires. She counted at least 20 men moving among the structures, all armed, all with that air of casual violence that men have who kill without a second thought. And then she saw her. María emerged from one of the shacks, pushed by a fat, bearded man. Her dress was torn, her hair tangled, but she was alive. Carolina felt her heart as if it were going to jump out of her chest. She wanted to scream her name, wanted to run toward her, but Joaquín put his hand over her mouth. “Calm down,” she whispered. Don’t worry, you saw her, she’s alive. Now we need to get her out of there. Carolina nodded, tears burning her eyes. María walked with difficulty, limping with her head down. Two more men followed her, laughing about something. One of them slapped her on the backside, and she staggered. Carolina gripped the revolver until her knuckles turned white. “The one-eyed man,” Joaquín muttered, pointing at the man walking behind María. “That’s the coyote’s place, lieutenant. If you kill him, the others will be left without command. I’m going to kill him,” Carolina said in a flat voice. “Him and everyone else who touched her. First we get her out, then we settle the score.” But Carolina wasn’t sure she could wait that long. They continued watching until the sun began to set. Joaquín drew a rudimentary map in the ground with a branch. The hut where they’re keeping the women is here, east of the camp. Two guards at the gate, maybe further in. The best route is by the river, using the rocks as cover. We go in when everyone’s asleep. We get your sister and leave through the north canyon before dawn. And if they discover us, then we improvise and probably die. Carolina looked at him. You don’t have to do this. You can go now. Joaquín looked back at her, and for the first time Carolina saw something genuine in his eyes, something like pain. “Yes, I have to.” Before Carolina could ask why, they heard something. Footsteps, branches snapping. Someone was coming up the slope toward where they were hiding. Joaquín signaled, and they both crouched behind a boulder, holding their breath. A man appeared from the trees, skinny, with a rifle slung over his shoulder, scanning the perimeter. He passed less than 5 meters from where they were, so close that Carolina could see the scars on his face, the rusty machete on his belt, her heart beating so loudly she thought the man would hear it. But the guard continued on, disappearing into the pines. Carolina released the breath she’d been holding. Joaquín waited several more minutes before moving. They know someone could be nearby. They’re going to post more guards tonight. So we have to go in now before it gets dark. It’s more dangerous. All of this is dangerous. Carolina stood up. But every hour that passes is another hour my sister suffers down there. Joaquín looked at her for a long time, as if assessing something. Finally, he nodded. She’s fine, but we need help. Help from whom? From someone who knows these parts better than I do. Joaquín pointed west, where the mountains became more rugged. The Raramurí have rancherias nearby, and there’s a woman there; if she’s still alive, she can help us. Whose name is Lupita. The coyote killed her family two years ago. If we tell her we’re after him, she’ll join us. How do you know she’s alive? Because I’ve seen her. She wanders the mountains alone, like a ghost. They say he kills any coyote he finds alone. Carolina felt something similar to Esperanza’s. They weren’t completely alone. They carefully descended the mountain, moving away from the camp, heading west.

The terrain grew rockier, wilder. They walked for hours as the sun set, painting the sky orange and purple. Joaquín followed tracks Carolina couldn’t see, invisible footprints in the stone, signs only someone raised in the desert would understand. When night fell completely, they came to a clearing among the rocks where there were the remains of a campfire. Joaquín knelt, touched the ashes—recent, less than a day old—it’s close. And if she doesn’t want to help us, then we’re still on our own. But something tells me she will. They sat, waiting without making a fire, in silence. Carolina felt every muscle tense, every nerve alert. There was something in the air, something she couldn’t name, as if the desert itself were holding its breath. And then they saw her. She stepped out of the shadows so silently that Carolina almost screamed. A woman older than Carolina, but not ancient, with sun-baked skin and eyes that shone with wild intelligence. He carried a rifle across his back, a machete at his waist, and clothes that looked like they were made from scraps of everything he’d found along the way. His long, black hair was braided with leather strips. “Joaquín the coward,” he said in a hoarse voice, “I thought you’d be dead by now, Lupita.” Joaquín didn’t get up. “We need your help. Help.” The woman laughed humorlessly. “What for? So you can betray me like you betrayed your own?” Carolina felt something break inside her. She looked at Joaquín. “What is he talking about?” Joaquín closed his eyes. “Lupita, let me explain. There’s nothing to explain.” The woman spat on the ground. “Everyone knows that Joaquín the Raramuri was one of the coyote’s men, one of those who killed, robbed, raped. Until one day he decided he didn’t want to be anymore.” Carolina felt the world stop. She stood up slowly, her hand going to the revolver at her waist. “It’s true.” Joaquín opened his eyes, and in them Carolina saw confirmation, saw guilt. She saw shame. “Carolina, let me go. Were you there?” she asked, her voice trembling. That night when Rafael was killed, when María was taken away, silence was answer enough. Carolina pulled out her revolver and pointed it straight at Joaquín’s head. Her hands weren’t shaking. Not anymore. Give me one reason not to kill you right now. Joaquín didn’t move, didn’t raise his hands, just looked at her with those black eyes filled with guilt. I have no reason. If you want to kill me, do it. I deserve it. Carolina felt his finger on the trigger. She felt the weight of the gun. She felt all the hatred and pain concentrating in that moment. She could kill him. She had to kill him. This man had been there. He had seen Rafael killed. He had seen her raped. He had seen María taken away, and he had done nothing. Why? he whispered.
Why didn’t you stop them? “Because I’m a coward,” Joaquín said, his voice breaking, “because all my life I’ve been a coward. When they killed my family, I couldn’t do anything because I was a child. When the coyote found me years later and forced me to join him, I didn’t have the courage to refuse. And when I saw what they did to you that night, I didn’t have the courage to stop him. My husband is dead because of you. I know it. My sister is down there suffering because of you. I know it.” Carolina couldn’t finish the sentence. The tears caught in her throat. She lowered the gun, trembling, feeling everything falling apart again. She had trusted him, had walked with him through the desert, had let him heal her feet, give her water, give her hope. And it had all been a lie. Lupita approached slowly, knelt beside Carolina, and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t kill him yet, girl. Not because he doesn’t deserve it, but because you need him.” He knows the camp better than anyone. He knows where they’re holding your sister. He knows how to get in and out without getting killed. I can’t. I can’t trust him. You don’t have to trust him. You just have to use him. Lupita looked at Joaquín with contempt. And when we’re done, when you get your sister out, then you kill him or I’ll do it for you. Carolina stayed there on her knees on the cold ground, the revolver hanging uselessly in her hand, feeling everything she’d built up in her head crumble. Joaquín wasn’t her ally, he was her enemy, one of them.

And she had been so stupid, so desperate, that she hadn’t seen it. “Okay,” she finally said in a dead voice. “We used it, but when this is over, Joaquín, you’re going to pay for what you did.” Joaquín nodded. “I’m already paying every day, every hour, but you’re right. I deserve more than that, and when we’re done, I’ll accept whatever you want to do to me.” Lupita stood up and spat again. “How nice.” Now that we’ve had this emotional moment, let’s get to the important stuff. How many men does the coyote have down there? 20, maybe 25,” Joaquín said. “Well armed, lookouts on the perimeter. And how many women? I saw three, but there may be more.” Lupita thought for a moment. “We need to create a diversion, something to get him out of the camp or at least divide his attention.” She looked at Carolina. “Do you know how to shoot? My father taught me. What too?” Carolina raised the revolver, aimed at a cactus 20 meters away, and fired. The tuna burst. Four bullets left. Lupita smiled for the first time. Okay, so this might work. But we need more guns, more bullets, and we need to move fast. Because if the coyote decided to sell your sister tomorrow, there won’t be anything left to do. How do we know if he’ll sell her tomorrow? Because that son of a bitch moves merchandise every three days. And according to my calculations, Lupita let the words hang in the cold night air. Carolina felt her stomach twist. According to your calculations, tomorrow is the third day since I saw the coyote come down to the town of San Isidro. He always does the same thing. He gathers the women, takes them to the border, hands them over to the gringos who buy them. Lupita looked toward where the camp was, although from there she couldn’t see anything. If we don’t get your sister out tonight, tomorrow she won’t be there anymore. The world narrowed down to that moment. One night, that was all they had. Carolina felt panic rise in her throat like boiling water, but she pushed it down with all the strength she had left. There was no time for fear, no time for doubt. “So we go in tonight,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument, without a plan, without enough weapons against 25 men. Lupita laughed humorlessly. “Fine, we’re going to die, but at least we’re going to die with balls. We’re not going to die.” Joaquín stood up. “I know a place where the coyote keeps weapons and ammunition, a hiding place in the rocks on the north side of the camp. If we go in there first, why should we believe you?” Carolina interrupted him. “Why should we believe a single word that comes out of your mouth?” Joaquín looked her straight in the eyes. “Because if I were lying to you, the coyote’s men would already be here.
I could have called them at any time these days. I could have handed you over when you were half-dead in the desert, but I didn’t, and I’m not going to. Why? Why are you deciding to raise your conscience now? Because that night, when I saw your sister crying, when I saw what the one-eyed man did to you, Joaquín closed his eyes. I saw my own sister, I saw My mother. I saw all the people I couldn’t save when they killed my family. And I realized that if I didn’t do something, if I didn’t stop this even once, then it wasn’t worth living anymore. The words hung between them. Carolina didn’t want to believe him. She wanted to continue hating him with all her being. But something in the way Joaquín spoke, something in the raw pain in his voice made her doubt. Lupita broke the silence. Very beautiful speech. Now for the important stuff. She pointed north. If that weapons cache exists, we’ll go get them.
If Joaquín is betraying us, I’ll kill him myself and we’ll shoot our way through. Okay? Carolina nodded. She had no other choice. They moved silently through the mountains, three shadows gliding between the pines and rocks. Lupita led the way, moving like a wild animal without making a sound. Joaquín led the way in the middle. Carolina brought up the rear, revolver in hand, and Her eyes fixed on Joaquín’s back, ready to shoot him if he tried anything. The moon was barely waxing, giving off enough light to see, but not enough to give them away. They descended into a narrow canyon where the water had carved strange shapes into the rock. They passed dark caves that looked like gaping mouths in the mountain.

In the distance, far below, the coyote’s campfires could be seen, small points of orange light in the darkness. Joaquín stopped next to a rock wall that seemed solid. He ran his hands over the surface, searching for something. He found a crack Carolina hadn’t seen. He inserted his fingers and pulled. A section of the wall moved, revealing a narrow opening. “Here,” he whispered. Lupita entered first, rifle ready. Carolina followed, gripping the revolver. Inside, there was a smell of dampness and gunpowder. Joaquín lit a match, and the flickering light revealed what was there. Rifles stacked against the wall, boxes of ammunition, machetes, two pistols, sticks of dynamite, Lupita murmured. “This is enough to start a war. That’s what the coyote uses it for,” Joaquín said. “He’s planning something big. I’ve heard he wants to ally with the federals, attack some Villista position, that’s why he needs so many weapons.” Carolina wasn’t listening. She was loading the revolver with fresh bullets, filling the pockets of her torn dress with ammunition, feeling the weight of the metal against her body. Lupita grabbed a Winchester, checked it out, and smiled. “I like this one.” She took two boxes of bullets. Now we’re even. Joaquín loaded a carbine and slung a satchel of cartridges over his shoulder. The plan is simple, Lupita. You create the diversion on the west side of the camp. Set fire to the corrals, shoot, make noise. When everyone runs that way, Carolina and I enter from the east, get the women out, and leave through the north canyon. “What if it doesn’t work?” Carolina asked. “Then we use the dynamite and blow everything up.” Joaquín looked at her. “But that means your sister will probably die too.” Carolina felt the chill of those words. “So it has to work.” They left the hideout and closed the entrance. The night was darker now, clouds blocking the moon. That was good. The darkness was their ally. They split up on the hillside. Lupita headed west, Carolina and Joaquín descending east. As they descended, Carolina whispered, “If you betray me, if this is a trap, I swear I’ll blow your head off with my last bullet. It’s not a trap, I swear on the memory of my dead sister.” They reached the edge of the camp. From there they could see the huts, the almost extinguished campfires, the silhouettes of the guards moving through the shadows. Everything was still, too still, as if the camp itself were holding its breath. They waited every second. It was an eternity. Carolina felt the sweat running down her back despite the night chill. She gripped the revolver until her fingers ached. She thought of María down there, in one of those huts, unaware that her sister was meters away. And then all hell broke loose. An explosion shook the west side of the camp.

Flames shot up into the sky, screams, gunshots. The coyote’s men ran like crazed ants, grabbing weapons, shouting orders. Lupita was doing her part. “Now,” Joaquín said. They ran crouching toward the hut where the women were being held. Two guards were at the door, but they were staring at the fire, confused. Joaquín moved like a shadow, splitting the first man’s skull with the butt of his rifle. Carolina shot the second before he could scream. The man fell with a hole in his chest. Three remaining bullets pushed open the door. Inside, it smelled of fear and filth. Three women were tied up on the ground, their eyes wide with terror. One of them was María.
“Carolina,” María cried, her voice cracking. Carolina ran toward her, cut the ropes with the machete Joaquín had given her. He hugged her so tightly she could barely breathe. “I’m here, little sister. I’m here. We’re going to get through this.” Joaquín cut the ropes of the other two women, young girls who couldn’t stop trembling. “You can come with us or stay, but if you come, you have to run fast and be quiet.” The two nodded desperately. They left the hut just as more explosions rocked the camp. Lupita was working her magic with that dynamite. They ran north, toward the canyon, with María limping between Carolina and Joaquín.

The other two women followed him, stumbling, getting up, stumbling again. They were halfway there when someone shouted behind them. They’re taking the old women. Joaquín turned around, fired without aiming. A man fell. But there were already more coming, many more. Run, Joaquín shouted. I’ll stop them. No. Carolina grabbed his arm. You’re coming with us. If I go with you, you’ll catch us all. Joaquín pushed her. Take your sister out. That’s all that matters. Joaquín, go. This is my chance to do something right for the first time in my life. Carolina saw in his eyes that he wasn’t going to change his mind and there was no time. The coyote’s men were getting closer, shooting, shouting. She took María by the hand, ran toward the canyon with the other women following. Behind her, she heard Joaquín shooting, shouting insults, luring the men toward him. He heard explosions, he heard screams of pain and then he heard something else, the coyote’s voice. Joaquín the traitor, I’m going to skin you alive, bastard. Carolina didn’t look back. She kept running, pulling María along, heading deeper into the darkness of the canyon. Rocks scraped their arms and legs. One of the women tripped, twisted her ankle, and was left behind, crying. Carolina couldn’t stop. She felt it in her soul, but she couldn’t. She kept running. She ran until her lungs burned, until Maria collapsed. They took shelter behind some enormous rocks, gasping, trembling. The other two women arrived soon after, one helping the other. They were all bleeding, all broken. But they were alive, and Maria was with her. Carolina hugged her sister, felt her thin body tremble against hers, heard her muffled sobs. He stroked her tangled hair, whispered words she didn’t even understand, only sounds of comfort, of love, of promises she might never be able to keep. I have you, little sister, I have you. It’s over, it’s over. But it wasn’t over. They still heard gunshots in the distance, they still heard screams. And Carolina knew Joaquín was back there, fighting alone, dying alone, paying for his sins with blood. Part of her wanted to go back, wanted to help him, but the bigger part, the part that loved María more than anything in the world, forced her to stay still. They waited in the darkness, holding their breath every time they heard footsteps nearby
An hour passed, maybe two. The gunshots gradually ceased. The silence returned, heavy and menacing, and then they heard something moving among the rocks. Carolina raised her revolver and pointed it into the darkness. Whoever it is, don’t come any closer, or I’ll shoot. Calm down, girl, it’s me. Lupita emerged from the shadows, covered in blood and soot, but smiling. We made it. We took out three. One stayed behind. Carolina lowered the gun. Joaquin. Lupita’s smile disappeared. I don’t know. I saw them surround him. I saw him fight like hell, but there were too many of them. Carolina felt something twisting in her chest. Hate, guilt, something that had no name. We have to go, Lupita said. They’re going to track this way. I know caves higher up where we can hide until dawn. And then, then we go down to the other side of the mountain range, we get as far away as possible. Lupita looked at María. She can walk. María agreed, even though she could barely stand. I can, I can walk. They went deeper into the canyon
Climbing among the rocks, hiding in the shadows. They found a shallow cave where they could see the entrance, but not be seen from outside. The five women huddled there, shivering from cold, fear, and exhaustion. Carolina hugged Maria. She felt her even breathing, her tears wetting the shoulder of her dress. He stroked her hair, whispered in her ear, “You’re safe now. I’m not going to let anyone touch you again.” Carolina, they, they did sh. You don’t have to tell me anything. Not now. But Maria kept talking, her voice cracking as if she needed to get the poison out before the coyote killed her. He said he was going to sell me tomorrow.

She said gringos pay well for blonde girls. She said she choked on her own words. Carolina, I’m pregnant. The world stopped. Carolina felt something break inside her, something that was already cracked, but was now shattering forever. What? From the coyote or the one-eyed man or who knows who? No, I don’t know. There were so many. Carolina held her tighter, feeling her sister crumble, feeling herself crumble. This couldn’t be happening, couldn’t be real, but it was. And in that moment, Carolina knew this wasn’t over. It couldn’t end like this. Not while the coyote was still alive, not while the one-eyed man was still breathing. She looked over María’s head at Lupita. “I’m going back,” she whispered. Lupita nodded slowly. “I know.” They woke up hidden in that cave like wounded animals. María slept, lying on Carolina’s lap, feverish, shivering even in the heat that was beginning to rise with the sun. The other two women were huddled at the back of the cave, one of them praying softly, the other simply staring into space with empty eyes. Lupita watched the entrance with the Winchester on her lap. She hadn’t slept. Neither had Carolina. “We have to move before noon,” Lupita whispered. “If we stay here, they’ll find us. The coyote knows these mountains almost as well as I do. María can’t walk like this. So we carried her, but we couldn’t stay.” Carolina looked at her sleeping sister. She saw the deep dark circles under her eyes. She saw her lips moving as she said things in her sleep, probably reliving horrors, and she felt the rage return, cold and clear as spring water. “I’m going to kill them,” she said in a flat voice. “All of them.” Lupita looked at her. “You got your sister out. That was the important thing. Now we have to get as far away as possible.” “No,” Carolina touched the revolver at her waist. “I can’t leave knowing they’re there, that they’re going to continue doing this, that they’re going to destroy more families, that they’re going to break more girls like they broke María’s. You’re one woman with a revolver and four bullets. They’re 20 men armed to the teeth. So, we need more help.” Carolina got up carefully so as not to wake María. You said there are Raramuri rancherias nearby, people who hate the coyote as much as we do. The Raramuri don’t fight other people’s wars; it’s their way. But you are Raramuri, and you are here. Lupita laughed humorlessly. I am nothing anymore. I am a ghost seeking revenge. My people thought I was dead years ago. What if we offer them something? What if we tell them they can keep the coyote’s weapons, his horses, everything he has? Lupita thought for a moment. Maybe there’s a man, Ignacio. He was Captain Raramuri before the federals burned his rancheria. He lost his son to the coyote. If anyone would help us, it would be him. Where is he? At noon on the way east. But girl, even if he agrees, even if he gathers 10 or 15 men, we’re still at a disadvantage. The coyote has his camp fortified. He has lookouts, he has Joaquín. Lupita fell. If he’s still alive, he’s alive. Carolina didn’t know why she said it with such certainty, but she felt it. And if he’s alive, he’s suffering. The coyote won’t kill him quickly; he’ll make him suffer for being a traitor. So, he’s either a dead man or this is our chance. Carolina knelt beside Lupita. Think about it. If Joaquín is there, if they have him tied up, torturing him, all the attention will be on him. The men will be distracted watching the spectacle. That’s when we can strike. Lupita looked at her as if she were seeing Carolina for the first time. “You’re tougher than I thought, girl. They made me tough.” Carolina clenched her fists. “Now we’re going to use that.” They left María and the other two women in the cave with water and what little food they had. One of the women, the one who hadn’t stopped praying, offered to take care of María while she slept off her fever. Carolina kissed her sister’s forehead. He quietly promised her he would return, though she didn’t know if it was a promise or a lie. They walked east, down canyons that seemed carved by ancient giants, passing by dry streams where only the memory of water remained. The sun was beating down, but Carolina no longer felt it. She felt nothing anymore, except that cold fire in her chest that drove her forward. In the middle of the afternoon, they found the ranch. It was more like a camp, temporary huts made of branches and skins, people moving silently between the structures. Children who stopped playing to look at the strangers. Women who looked at them with distrust, men who grabbed sticks and stones. Lupita raised her hands and shouted something in a language Carolina didn’t understand. An old man emerged from one of the huts and walked slowly toward them. He had a scar that ran across his face from his forehead to his jaw. His eyes were hard, but not blind; they saw everything. He spoke with Lupita in Raramuri for several minutes. Lupita pointed to Carolina. She pointed to where the coyote’s camp was. The old man looked at Carolina for a long time, as if sizing something up she couldn’t see. Finally, he spoke in Spanish with a thick but clear accent. Lupita says you want to kill the coyote. Yes. Why? Because he killed my husband.

Because he took my sister. Because he destroyed my life. The old man nodded slowly. Those are good reasons to hate. But hate doesn’t kill the coyote. He has many rifles. We have few arrows. He has a cache full of weapons. If we kill him, they can have everything. Rifles, ammunition, horses, whatever they want. The old man looked at her with something that seemed like respect. You’re smart, but you’re still a single woman, with a broken heart. How do I know you’re not leading us into a trap? Because I already got my sister out of there. She could be long gone by now. But I came back. Carolina took a step closer. Because as long as the coyote breathes, no woman in these mountains is safe, not mine, not his. The old man remained silent. He looked at the sky as if searching for signs in the clouds. Finally, he said, “My son was 14 years old when the coyote’s men found him hunting. They killed him for sport. For fun,” his voice barely cracked. “They left his body for the animals to eat. It took me three days to find him. What was left of him. I’m sorry. I don’t want your sorrow, I want his blood.” The old man spat. “If you give me the chance to shed that blood, my men will go with you. But it has to be soon. Tomorrow, the coyote will come down to the village. If we wait, he’ll escape us. Tonight,” Carolina said, “we attack.” Tonight, the old man smiled mirthlessly. “Tonight then, I’ll gather those who want to fight. We’ll be few, maybe eight or 10. But we know the mountains, we know how to hunt. That’s enough.” Lupita and Carolina returned to the cave. María was awake, sitting against the rock wall, her eyes red from crying. When she saw Carolina, she tried to get up, but couldn’t. “Where did you go? I thought you left me.” Carolina knelt. Beside her, he hugged her. I’m never going to leave you, never, but I need you to understand something. He pulled away to look her in the eyes. I’m going back to camp. I’m going to finish this. No. María grabbed her arm. No, Carolina, you already got me out. That’s enough. Let’s go far away, anywhere, but don’t go back there. I can’t leave knowing that they’re still there, that they can do to someone else what they did to you. I don’t care what they do to others. María cried. I only care about you. I’ve already lost Rafael. I can’t lose you too. Carolina felt her heart break. She wanted to promise you that she would come back. She wanted to tell her that everything would be okay, but she couldn’t lie to her. No, after all, I have to do it, little sister. I have to do it, because if I don’t, I’m going to carry this hatred until it rots me inside, and you don’t deserve a rotten sister. María lowered her head in defeat. So, promise me that you’ll come back. Swear it to me on Rafael’s memory. I swear. Two broken sisters embraced in silence, trying to stay together, even though the world conspired to separate them. As evening fell, Carolina and Lupita met up with Ignacio and his men at an agreed-upon spot north of the camp.

There were nine of them in total, all older, all with the same hard stare of someone who has lost too much. They carried bows, arrows, and a few old machetes. Not many firearms. Ignacio drew a map in the ground with a stick. The camp has four entry points: north, south, east, west. Normally, they have guards at all of them, but if Lupita is right and they’re busy torturing the traitor, most of them will be in the center of the camp watching for where they’d have him. Carolina asked. In the central plaza where they carry out the executions. It’s their way of sending a message. Ignacio marked a spot in the center of the map. We entered from all four sides simultaneously, silently. Arrows first for the guards. When they spot us—because they will spot us—then we use the rifles we brought from the weapons cache. I’m going for the coyote, Carolina said. No, you’re going for the one-eyed man. Lupita looked at her. The coyote is mine. He owes me my daughter’s life. But the one-eyed man, that son of a bitch who raped you, he’s yours. Carolina nodded. She felt the revolver weigh on her waist like a promise. And Joaquín, if he’s alive, when we arrive, we’ll free him. If he’s dead, Ignacio shrugged. Then it was the gods’ decision. They waited until it was completely dark. Carolina checked the revolver. She counted the bullets again. Four. Four chances. She couldn’t miss. Lupita put a hand on his shoulder. Are you scared? I’m scared to death. Good. Fear keeps you alive. It’s blind trust that kills you. They moved in the darkness, splitting into four groups. Carolina was with Lupita and two Raramuri men toward the east side. Her feet knew the path now, every stone, every branch. The silence was so complete that she could hear her own breathing, her own heart beating like a drum. And then they heard screams. They were coming from the camp, screams of pain, screams that weren’t human, but rather those of an animal being torn apart alive. Carolina felt her stomach churn. It was Joaquín. It had to be Joaquín. They approached the edge of the camp, hidden among the rocks. From there they could see the central plaza. There was a huge bonfire, and around it the coyote’s men formed a circle. In the center, tied to a post, was Joaquín, or what was left of him. His shirt had been ripped off. His back was raw flesh, blood running down his ribs. The one-eyed man stood over him with a whip, smiling, enjoying every blow. And sitting in a chair like a king on his throne, smoking a cigar, was the coyote Salazar. Carolina got a good look at him for the first time. He wasn’t a giant, he wasn’t a physical monster; he was an ordinary man, maybe four or so years old, with a thick mustache and eyes that shone with cruel intelligence. He dressed well, better than any of his men, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, almost kind. Joaquín, Joaquín, it pains me to do this, you know? I treated you like a son, I gave you everything, and this is how you repay me. Joaquín lifted his head with effort and spat out blood. Go to hell. The coyote laughed. Probably, but you’ll get there first. He signaled to the one-eyed man. Continue, but slowly. I want it to last. The one-eyed man raised his whip again. Ignacio appeared next to Carolina and whispered, “Everyone’s in position now. On your signal.” Carolina looked at Lupita. Lupita nodded. Carolina raised the revolver, pointed it at the sky, and fired. The shot into the sky was like breaking glass. For a second, everything froze. The coyote’s men looked up in confusion. The coyote rose from his chair. The one-eyed man dropped the whip. And then hell fell upon them from four directions. Arrows whizzed through the darkness. Three guards fell before they realized what was happening, arrows lodged in their necks, their chests, their eyes. The Raramuri moved like invisible, deadly shadows. Carolina ran toward the plaza with Lupita at her side, firing, reloading, firing. Another time, a man appeared in front of her with a raised machete. She shot a bullet into his forehead without thinking. Three bullets left. The camp erupted in chaos: screams, gunfire, men running in all directions, not knowing where the attack was coming from. The fire from the bonfires cast wild shadows that danced on the walls of the huts. It smelled of gunpowder, blood, fear. Carolina made her way to the center, to where Joaquín was tied up. A large man with a scar on his cheek blocked her way. She shot him in the stomach, saw him double over, fall. She didn’t feel anything. There was no more room to feel. Two bullets. She reached the post where they had Joaquín. He raised his head, looked at her with eyes that could barely focus. Carolina, go. It’s a trap, but it was too late. Something hard hit her back. She fell to her knees. The revolver, slipping from her hand, she turned around, saw the one-eyed man standing over her with a piece of wood in his hands, smiling with that smile that had given her nightmares for days. I thought I taught you to stay still, bitch. Carolina crawled toward the revolver. The one-eyed man kicked her in the ribs, flipped her onto her back, knelt over her, and put his hands on her throat. This time I’m going to kill you slowly. I’m going to enjoy it. Carolina couldn’t breathe. The one-eyed man’s hands squeezed, squeezed. He saw black dots dancing in his vision. He thought of Maria. He thought of Rafael. He thought that after all he wouldn’t be able to keep his promise, and then the one-eyed man screamed. Joaquin had managed to free one hand from the ropes, had grabbed a knife from the belt of a nearby dead man, and had plunged it into the one-eyed man’s thigh up to the hilt. The one-eyed man stood up screaming, clutching his leg. Carolina coughed, gasped for air, saw the revolver a meter away, crawled, grabbed it, and turned around. The one-eyed man was limping toward her, the knife still stuck in his leg, his eyes filled with hate and pain. Carolina raised the revolver, pointed it at his chest, then lowered her sights and shot him in the groin. The one-eyed man’s scream was something she would never forget. He fell to his knees, his hands going to the wound, blood oozing between his fingers. Carolina stood up, walked slowly toward him, and placed the barrel of the revolver to his forehead. “This is for my husband, for my sister, for every woman you touched.” She fired. The one-eyed man’s head snapped back. His body fell like a sack of rocks, no bullets. Carolina stood over the corpse, trembling, feeling something that wasn’t satisfaction or relief, only emptiness, a vast emptiness where there had once been hatred. “Carolina,” Lupita shouted from somewhere. The coyote was escaping. Carolina turned and saw a figure running toward the corrals, the coyote trying to catch a horse. Lupita ran after him, but there were too many men among them. Too much chaos. Carolina searched her pockets for bullets. Nothing, she’d used them all. She looked around desperately. She saw the pistol on the dead one-eyed man’s belt. She grabbed it, checked it. Two bullets. She ran. The camp was a slaughterhouse. The Raramuri fought with silent ferocity, arrows and machetes against rifles. They had killed many, but several of their own had also fallen. Ignacio was fighting hand-to-hand with two men at the same time, bleeding from a wound in his arm, but not retreating an inch. Carolina ran past corpses, past moaning wounded, past a burning hut that cast an orange light over the massacre. The coyote had already reached a horse, which she was riding. Lupita arrived first, shot, and missed. The coyote drew his pistol and returned fire. Lupita threw herself behind a barrel, screaming in frustration. Carolina didn’t stop. She kept running even though her lungs were burning, even though her legs were screaming at her to stop. The coyote spurred the horse. He began to gallop toward the northern exit of the camp. He was about to escape. Carolina raised her pistol, aimed, and fired as she ran. The bullet struck the horse in the hindquarters. The animal squealed, staggered, and fell. The coyote flew, rolled on the ground, and got up, stunned. Carolina reached him and aimed the last bullet. The coyote raised his hands, still smiling, still smiling. Wait, wait, we can do business. I can give you money, lots of money, whatever you want. I don’t want your money. So what? Revenge. He laughed. Revenge won’t bring your husband back, girl. It won’t erase what we did to you

Kill me and you’ll carry that anyway. But if you let me live, I can give you something better. I can give you power. Carolina looked at him. She saw an ordinary man trying to bargain for his life. She saw fear hidden behind the soft words, and she saw something else. She saw that he was right. Killing him wasn’t going to change anything. Rafael would still be dead. María would still be broken, she would still be empty, but she couldn’t let him live either. Lupita came running with the Winchesterume, blood splattered on her face. She stood next to Carolina. “It’s mine,” she said breathlessly. “You promised me. It’s mine.” The coyote looked at her, and for the first time, the fear was real in his eyes. “Lupita, listen. What happened to your daughter was an accident. It wasn’t personal. It was wartime, and don’t say her name.” Lupita’s voice was ice. “You don’t have the right to say her name, please.” Lupita hit him in the face with the butt of the rifle. The coyote fell, spitting blood and teeth. Lupita kicked him in the ribs once, twice. He kept kicking until he curled up like a worm. My daughter was 8 years old. Eight. And your men used her like rags. Lupita was shaking with rage. I found her three days later. What was left of her. The coyote was sobbing. Now the mask finally broken, showing the coward he’d always been underneath. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Me too. Lupita raised the rifle. I’m sorry you can’t die more than once, she fired. The bullet shattered his knee. The coyote screamed. Lupita turned him over, turned him upside down, put the barrel to the back of his head. Die like a fucking dog. She fired again. Coyote Salazar’s body jerked one last time and went still. Lupita stood over him, breathing heavily, crying soundlessly. Carolina put a hand on his shoulder. She said nothing, there was nothing to say. The camp had fallen silent. The gunfire had stopped. Those who didn’t die had fled into the darkness. Ignacio and his men gathered the bodies of their fallen. They had lost four, four more to add to the death toll this stupid war had claimed. Carolina walked back to the center. Joaquín was still tied to the post, now unconscious. She cut the ropes and carefully lowered him to the ground. He was barely alive, but alive. He was breathing in short, painful gasps. “Why did you save him?” Lupita asked, coming up to her. “I don’t know.” Carolina looked at Joaquín’s mangled back. “Maybe because there had been enough death. Or maybe because he saved my life. He saved you there. Because I owed him. That doesn’t make him good. No, but it does make him human.” Carolina got up. “I’m going to find something to carry him. If we leave him here, he’s going to die of his wounds.” She found a mat. Three of them wrapped him up as best they could. Joaquín groaned, but didn’t wake up. Ignacio sent two of his men to carry him. What are you going to do now? asked old Raramuri.

I’m going to look for my sister. We’re going to go far away from here, somewhere where no one knows us. And he pointed at Joaquín. Carolina looked at the man who had betrayed her, who had helped her, who had paid with blood for her sins. I’m going to leave him in some town. Whether he lives or dies is his business. Ignacio nodded. Take them to where the woman is. We’ll stay here. There’s a lot to carry. He smiled mirthlessly. The coyote was right about one thing. This will give us power. Enough weapons to defend ourselves the next time the federals come. They said goodbye without many words. They didn’t need to. They had shared blood. That was enough. They walked back to the cave, guided by two Raramuri. Carolina shuffled, feeling as if she weighed 1,000 kg. The sky was beginning to clear in the east. Dawn would soon be a new day. But it didn’t feel new; it felt like the same day she’d been living since Rafael was killed. They arrived at the cave as the sun was already painting the rocks pink and gold. Maria was awake, sitting in the doorway, hugging her knees. When she saw Carolina, she jumped up. Carolina. They hugged in the middle of the road, both crying, both trembling. Carolina felt her sister’s thin body against hers and knew that this, this was the only thing that mattered. Not revenge, not justice, just this, holding María alive in her arms. It’s over, María whispered. It’s over. Carolina looked back at the camp, where the bodies of the dead waited for the vultures to descend. Yes, little sister, it’s over. But they both knew it was a lie. This was never going to end. They were going to carry this for the rest of their lives, the scars, the memories, the nightmares, but at least they were going to carry it together. The Raramuri left them there, taking Joaquín with them. They said they would leave him in a village two days south with a healer who might be able to save him, or maybe not. It was no longer Carolina’s problem. They stayed in the cave that day, resting, tending to wounds, trying to process what had happened. The other two women decided to go with the Raramuri. One of them had family in Durango. The other simply wanted to get as far away from these cursed mountains as possible. Carolina didn’t blame them. At dusk, when the heat subsided, Carolina and María began walking south, away from the mountains, away from the camp, away from anything that might remind them of this nightmare. They walked for days. Sometimes it rained, and they took shelter under the trees. Sometimes the sun beat so down that they had to stop every hour, but they kept going, because to stop was to die. And they had already seen too much death. They arrived at a small town at the foot of the mountains. No one knew them there. No one asked them where they came from or what they were doing alone. During the revolution, there were too many widows walking the roads, too many orphaned sisters seeking refuge. They found work in a home. Carolina washing clothes, María helping in the kitchen when the fever didn’t knock her down. It wasn’t much, but it was something. It was starting over. One night, a month after arriving in the village, María asked her, “What are we going to do with the baby?” Carolina had tried not to think about it, not to think about how a piece of the violence they had suffered was growing inside María. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “What do you want to do?” María touched her still-flat stomach. “I don’t know.” Sometimes I think I should, but other times I think it’s the only thing left, the only living thing that came out of all this. You don’t have to decide now. And if it looks like them, and if it has the face of a coyote or a one-eyed man, then it’s going to have your heart, and that’s what’s going to matter. María cried that night. She cried a lot, and Carolina hugged her, stroked her hair, sang her the songs her mother used to sing to them when they were little girls, before the fever took her. Months passed, and María’s belly grew. Carolina worked twice as hard to earn enough money for when the baby arrived. Some days were good, others were impossible, but they kept going. And one night, six months after arriving in the village, someone knocked on the door of her little room. Carolina grabbed the machete she kept under her cot. María hid behind her, holding her breath. No one knocked on doors at this hour. Nothing good came after dark. “Who is it?” Carolina asked firmly. Silence. Then a hoarse voice. Weak. “It’s me.” Carolina felt something tighten in her chest. She knew that voice. She opened the door slowly, machete ready. Joaquín was standing in the doorway, or rather, he was holding onto the frame because he looked like he might fall at any moment. He was thinner, his skin stuck to his bones, his beard long and unkempt. His back, Carolina knew, must be pure scar tissue, but he was alive. “What are you doing here?” Carolina asked, without lowering her machete. I needed. I needed to see you, to know you were okay. We’re okay, you saw that. Now go, Carolina, please, just let me let you explain, apologize. Carolina felt the rage returning. That fire she’d tried to extinguish for months. There’s nothing you can say that will change what happened. I know. Joaquín coughed. He staggered. I didn’t come to apologize. I came to pay you. He took something out of his backpack. A leather pouch. He dropped it on the ground. Silver coins rolled onto the dirt floor. It’s all I have. All I could scrape together these past few months. I thought I could help you with the baby. Carolina looked at the money. Then he looked at Joaquín. He saw a broken man, consumed by guilt, trying to buy some peace for his conscience. I don’t want your money. So, burn it, throw it away, do whatever you want, but I can’t carry it anymore. Joaquín sank to his knees. I can’t carry anything else. María stepped out from behind Carolina and looked at Joaquín for a long time, the man who had been there the night her life was shattered. The man who did nothing while she was raped, while Rafael was killed, but also the man who later risked his life to save her. “Are you really sorry?” María asked in a small voice. Joaquín looked at her, his eyes filled with tears. Every day, every hour, every time I close my eyes, I see that night and hate myself for not having been brave enough. Regret doesn’t change anything. “I guess it’s something,” Maria said, “but I guess it’s something.” Joaquín nodded, lowered his head. Carolina picked up the bag from the floor, weighed it in her hand. It was blood money, dirty money, but it was also food for Maria, medicine for when the baby was born, maybe a better place to live. “Stay tonight,” he finally said, “but tomorrow you’re leaving and not coming back. Thank you.” Joaquín crawled into a corner, curled up there like a beaten dog. That night, neither of them slept well. Carolina listened to Joaquín’s labored breathing, his moans when he moved, and the scars that tugged at his skin. María trembled with nightmares, woke up screaming, and went back to sleep. And Carolina stayed awake, keeping watch with the machete in her hand, wondering if she had done the right thing by letting him in. At dawn, Joaquín got up with difficulty. Carolina gave him cold tortillas and water. He ate in silence, without looking at them. “Where are you going to go?” Maria asked. “I don’t know. Far away, maybe to the north, maybe to the border.” Joaquín shrugged. “Maybe I’ll just keep walking until my body can’t take it anymore.” “That’s cowardice,” Carolina said again. “So what do you want me to do? Stay and suffer near you? Carry my guilt where you can see it? I want you to live with what you did.” Let every day be a reminder, and if you ever see another woman in trouble, another family being attacked, don’t stand still, do something. Joaquín looked at her. And if that’s not enough, it’ll never be enough. Carolina leaned closer, looked him straight in the eyes. But it’s the only thing you can do. Joaquín nodded, stood up, grabbed his empty backpack, walked to the door, and paused on the threshold. I hope—I hope you both and the baby find peace. I hope you have the life you deserve. So do we, Maria said. Joaquín stepped out into the morning sun and didn’t look back. Carolina watched him walk away down the dusty road until he was just a speck in the distance, until he disappeared. “Do you think we’ll see him again?” Maria asked. “I don’t know, and I don’t care.” Carolina closed the door. The only thing that matters is that we’re here together, alive. Weeks passed. Maria’s belly grew until it felt like it was about to burst. Carolina used Joaquín’s money to buy blankets, small clothes, and prepare everything for when the baby arrived. She found a midwife in the village, a wise old woman who had delivered hundreds of children. One night, when the moon was full and the air smelled of rain that hadn’t come, María felt her first pangs. Carolina ran for the midwife. Hours passed. Maria screamed, pushed, cried. Carolina held her hand, wiped away the sweat, told her everything was going to be okay, even though she didn’t know it. And then, when the night was at its darkest, the cry was heard. A baby, a tiny, wrinkled, perfect girl. The midwife cleaned her, swaddled her, and placed her on Maria’s chest. María looked at her with enormous eyes, full of tears, full of something Carolina hadn’t seen in her sister since before everything happened. Hope. She’s beautiful, María whispered. Despite everything, she’s beautiful. Carolina looked at the girl. She had dark hair, eyes that hadn’t yet decided what color they would be. She didn’t look like the coyote, she didn’t look like the one-eyed man, she looked like María and maybe a little like her dead mother, like Rafael, like all those who had gone before. “What are you going to name her?” Carolina asked. Maria thought for a long moment. “Esperanza.” She’s going to be called Esperanza. Because that’s all we have left. Years passed. Esperanza grew strong and curious, with the easy laughter of children who don’t know the weight of the world. Carolina continued working, scraping together pennies, saving for when they could move to a bigger place, a place with more opportunities. María recovered little by little, although the nightmares never completely went away, but she learned to live with them. She learned to smile again. One afternoon, four years after that terrible night, Carolina was washing clothes in the river when she saw a horseman in the distance. She tensed, her hand instinctively going to where she’d once carried her revolver, but she didn’t have it anymore; she no longer needed weapons, or so she told herself. The horseman approached. It wasn’t Joaquín, it was a young man in a torn Villista uniform carrying a message. Carolina Mendoza asked, “Who’s asking? I have news from General Villa.” The young man handed her a folded piece of paper. He says he knew her husband, Rafael Mendoza. He says he was a good man and that he’s very sorry about what happened. Carolina took the paper with trembling hands and opened it. Inside, in crude but clear handwriting, it said, “Mrs. Mendoza, I’m learning late of the tragedy you suffered.” The men who did this to you weren’t revolutionaries, they were animals. This isn’t the revolution. The revolution is justice. If you ever need anything, please send your word. Villa doesn’t forget the widows of good men. Ate, Francisco Villa. Carolina read the message twice. Then she folded it and put it in her apron pocket. “Tell the general I appreciate his kind words, but I don’t need anything. I’ve gotten my justice.” The boy nodded, spurred his horse, and rode off. Carolina went back to washing clothes, scrubbing the stains, and feeling the cold river water on her hands. And for the first time in years, she truly smiled, not because everything was okay—it never would be completely okay—but because she was alive, because María was alive, because Esperanza was running around chasing butterflies, unaware that her very existence was a miracle. That night, when she put the baby to bed, Carolina told her a story. Not the real story, not yet. Esperanza was very little, but she told her about a brave woman who crossed the desert, who fought monsters, who saved her sister. A true story turned into a fairy tale. Esperanza fell asleep with a smile. María came over and sat next to Carolina. “Do you think we’ll ever tell her? The truth, when she’s older, when she can understand.” Carolina looked at her sleeping niece. But for now, let’s let her be a child, let’s let her live without carrying our scars. Thank you, Maria whispered, for everything, for not giving up, for looking for me, for still being here. I’ll always be here. We’re all we have left. They hugged in silence. Two broken women who had learned to rebuild themselves piece by piece, day by day. Outside, the wind blew in from the desert, bringing dust and memories. And somewhere far away, in the mountains where it all happened, the bones of the coyote and the one-eyed man bleached in the sun, forgotten by all but the vultures. Justice, Carolina thought, doesn’t always come quickly, doesn’t always come clean, but when it comes, when it finally collects what’s owed, it leaves marks that never fade, marks on the earth, marks on the soul, and maybe, just maybe, it leaves something else too. The chance to start over. Carolina Mendoza, the woman who crossed the Chihuahuan Desert with only five bullets and a broken heart. The woman who taught northern Mexico that there is no fury more dangerous than that of a sister with nothing left to lose. They say Joaquín el Raramuri kept walking until he reached the border. They say she died years later in a bar in El Paso, an empty bottle in her hand and her sister’s name on her lips. No one knows if it’s true. They say Lupita returned to the mountains, that she still roams around like a ghost, killing any man who resembles those who took her daughter from her. They say she’s immortal, that she’s pure, walking vengeance. They say many things, but the only truth that matters is this. Carolina saved her sister. And in times of revolution, when death was on the loose, that was the closest thing to a miracle anyone could hope for. It was worth all that pain, all that blood. Carolina never knew, but every time she saw Esperanza smile, every time María sang while she worked, she told herself that maybe it was. Maybe the price of blood was fair when it bought a future for those you loved. Or maybe you were just lying to yourself so you could sleep at night. The revolution continued, the village continued fighting, the federals continued killing, and in the midst of all that chaos, three women continued living day after day, building something resembling peace on the rubble of their tragedy. Because that’s what those of us who survived do, my friend. We carry on. We keep going even if it hurts, even if the weight is unbearable, even if the path is full of thorns. We keep going because stopping is giving victory to those who wanted to destroy us. And Carolina Mendoza was never going to give them that satisfaction. You just heard Legendarios del Norte. If you’ve made it this far, it’s because Carolina sparked something in you. What resonated most with you about her story? Tell us in the comments. I’ll be reading them all. Thanks for joining us for another story from the Legendarios del Norte channel. In the comments, you’ll also find a link to a series of stories about Mexican justice and revenge just as good as this one. Just click the blue link. Thanks, and see you soon. May God bless you always.