Voices. Coming up to him from below. Not surprising. They crossed here all the time. No need to be quiet. He took a turkey-peek through the scope. No one in sight yet. They were down below his sightline, still on the Mex side.
He keyed the press button on his headset and spoke low.
“Deputy Small. Anyone there?” A crackle in his ear.
“What’s up, Jimbo?” The drawl of Lester Horse.
“Got traffic down here heading my way.”
“You have a visual, Jimbo?”
“I can hear ’em makin’ for the fence line. You close, Lester?”
“Depends on where you are, Jimbo.”
“I’m above that draw where the deer trail crosses near that spot where Dan Squires found the dirt bike last winter.”
“Damn, Jimbo.” Crackle and crosstalk. Jimbo could hear Lester talking to someone off- mike. Probably his partner John Haytown.
“Lester?”
“We’re all the way the hell up on the east fire road near the highway fork. “
Jimbo took another turkey-peek. He could see them now. They were scrambling down the wall of the gully on the other side of the fence.
“They’ll be over by the time you get here, Les.”
“How many?”
“I count eight.”
“Loaded down?”
Through the scope, they were closer now. Six were carrying bundles on their backs. Backpack suitcases packed with brown, flake, or most likely grass. Two, maybe three million dollars walking right toward him. The two who weren’t humping rucks wore brand new cowboy hats and had rifles or shotguns shoulder-slung.
“Carryin’ weight, Les. Six mules humpin’ and two coyotes walkin’ heavy.”
More crackling and crosstalk. Busy night on the border.
Les came back on. “Let ’em go, Jimbo.”
“They’ll be up in the reservations. You’ll never find ’em.”
“Let ’em pass, Jimbo. No John Wayne shit, okay?”
“Yeah. Small out.”
Jimbo’d have to lay here quiet and allow them to pass below him. If he moved now, he’d be inviting fire. They could all be armed as far as he knew. Might as well lay still and watch the late show. He pressed his eye to the scope. They were fifty yards south of the fence. Two of the mules were smaller than the others. From their gait, he knew they were women. They struggled with their burdens more than the others. The end of a long day. Twelve or more miles walking with maybe ten more ahead of them before the night was through.
One of the coyotes stopped and held up a hand. They were close enough that Jimbo could hear the sound of his voice if not the words. What was this dude up to? Why the sudden caution?
The coyotes stopped the procession. They made a pantomime of looking about them in the dark. What could they see? There’s no way in hell they knew Jimbo was watching them. They turned now, rifles unlimbered, and motioned to the mules to sit on the floor of the gully. One of the mules hesitated and was dropped to the dust with the butt of a rifle.
Jimbo knew what was next. He’d found the evidence of it enough times. These poor bastards paid all they had to get over the border to a job with decent wages. They even agreed to carry shit as part of the fare. Now some of them were going to pay with their dignity. The coyotes had the power now, so close to the prize, to make these peons endure further hardship.
A coyote pulled one of the girls to her feet and yelled orders at her. He wanted that pack off her. When she struggled to shrug out of the straps, he pulled at her and, freeing her from the ruck, threw her to the ground. The other coyote held his rifle on the others and they sat, shifting in the sand until he shouted at them to be still.
The girl was young. Jimbo could tell that much. She tried to crawl up the lip of the shallow draw. The laughter rose up and echoed off the rocks, and Jimbo felt the flesh on his forearms go cold. The coyote was on top of the girl now, and they both slid down the wall of the draw and out of his sight. But he could hear the sounds. The pleading and the answering shouts. The other one stood with rifle trained on the mules and turned now and then to watch his amigo’s progress with an eagerness that was plainly visible in his body language. He was doing the horny dance in his shiny rodeo boots while waiting for his shot at sloppy seconds.
Jimbo could easily move now—slide from his position while they were occupied. Take his gear and move up to where his ATV was hidden under a desert camo tarp. No one would blame him. No one had to know. They were on their side of the line, for Christ’s sake.
Fuck it. Just fuck it.
He leaned into the scope again. He willed his shoulders to unbunch, his hands to unclench. He spat out the smooth round pebble he’d been sucking on and breathed in a clean lungful of cold air. Blew it out slow enough it wouldn’t ruffle a butterfly’s wings. When his lungs were empty, he settled the triple hairs on the head of the sucker standing and waiting his turn.
Center shot. It was a heavy round Jimbo custom loaded himself in his garage shop. It threw the guy from his field of vision. He moved the scope to the lip of the draw where
