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.

The town, a dusty hamlet of adobe and misery, received her with looks of pity and awkward silence. Everyone knew what had happened. Everyone had heard the screams that night and none had lifted a finger. The cantina smelled of rancid mezcal and sweat. Carolina pushed the doors open and everyone turned to see her. The conversations died.

The commissioner was sitting at his usual table, with his belly resting on his belt and a plate of beans half-eaten. She looked up and in her eyes Carolina saw something worse than indifference. He saw fear. Mrs. Mendoza began by wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

They took my sister, Carolina said in a hoarse voice. Do you know who the coyote Salazar and his people were? The commissioner looked around nervously, as if looking for help that was not going to come. Look, Doña Carolina, what happened to you is terrible, really, but nothing. You are the authority here. Go for it. The man laughed heartlessly, a hollow sound that reverberated in the silence of the cantina.

I’m going after the coyote. Lady, that man has 30 rifles and knows every corner of the mountains. I have two assistants and half a brain between the three of us. It would be suicide. So he’s a coward. The commissioner turned red, but did not get up. I knew he was right. These are times of revolution, doña. Everyone takes care of their own.

If Villa can’t handle these wretches, what does he want me to do? Carolina leaned over the table, so close she could smell the mezcal on her breath. My sister is 16 years old. Do you know what they’re going to do to you? Do you know where they are going to sell it? The commissioner looked away, swallowed hard. I’m sorry, really, but I can’t help her.

Carolina spat on the ground centimeters from her boots, let her rot in hell, commissioner. He walked out of there with his hands trembling with rage. The square was empty, the wind dragged dust between the stones. He sat at the dry fountain, with his head in his hands, feeling how everything was crumbling, without help, without weapons, without horse.

How was he going to find Mary? The desert swallowed up the armed men and she was nothing more than a broken woman. Doña Carolina looked up. An old man stood in front of her, stooped with age, but with eyes that still shone with something like dignity. Don Esteban, the town’s blacksmith, the only one who had had the balls to face the coyote years ago and live to tell the tale, even if it cost him three fingers on his left hand.

Don Esteban, I know what happened,” he said in a broken voice, “and I know that no one here is going to lift a finger. Everyone is afraid. I’m scared too. I’m not going to lie to you, but I can’t stay silent.” He held out something wrapped in an old rag. Carolina unwrapped it. A heavy revolver with worn wooden grips. He recognized the gun immediately.

It was her father’s revolver, the one she taught her to shoot as a child, before pneumonia took it away. 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 came.

Carolina picked up the gun, felt the familiar weight in her hand. Inside the rag were five bullets, five shots. Don Esteban said, “Use them well. The coyote makes its camp where the river breaks between the red rocks past the mountains. But girl, she’s not going to make it alive walking alone. That path swallows men. I don’t care. He should care.

If he dies in the desert, who is going to save Mary? Carolina got up, put the revolver in the waistband of her dress. So, I’m not going to 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 accompany myself alone. He walked north, toward where the sun fell like molten lead, toward the mountain range that loomed over the horizon like the broken teeth of a dead animal.

He had no food, he did not have enough water, he had no horse, he only had five bullets and a pain so great that it could set the entire desert on fire. Every step over the cracked earth was a renewed promise. he would find Mary, even if he had to crawl on glass, even if the desert sucked every last drop of blood. The first day he walked until his legs trembled, the sun ripped off his skin, the dry air burned his lungs.

He drank water carefully, knowing that he had to ration it, even if his throat screamed for more. At nightfall, he took refuge under a twisted green stick, shivering with cold, because the Chihuahuan desert is an oven by day and an ice tomb by night. He did not sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Maria crying, I saw the coyote smiling, I saw Rafael dropping dead. On the second day, the world began to crumble at the edges.

The heat hit her like invisible fists. The horizon danced, the rocks moved. He saw water where there was none, he saw shadows that did not exist. he stumbled, fell, got up, stumbled again, his hands were bleeding from scraping against the stones, his lips were broken, his tongue swelled, but he went on, because to stop was to die and to die was to abandon Mary.

When the sun reached its cruelest point, Carolina couldn’t take it anymore. He crawled to a dry mesquite, dropped into the miserable shade it offered, and closed his eyes. thinking that perhaps Don Esteban was right, that the desert was going to swallow her like so many others. Thirst tore at his throat, he could no longer feel his feet.

The revolver was like lead in his waist, useless, because he hadn’t even seen a soul in two days. And then he heard something, slow, cautious footsteps. He opened his eyes with effort. He saw a shadow silhouetted against the sun, a tall man with skin tanned by the desert and eyes as black as wells.

He wore a rifle crossed on his back and clothes that looked like those of the Taraumara of the mountains. Carolina tried to reach for the revolver, but her hands did not respond. The man knelt beside her, offered her a leather canteen. Take slowly. She drank like a desperate animal. The cool water burned his dry throat. He touched, spit, drank again. “Who are you?” he murmured in a raspy voice.

My name is Joaquín, said the man. And you’re going to die here if you keep walking alone. Carolina looked at him suspiciously, with what little survival instinct she had left. What do you want? Nothing, but I know where you’re going. Joaquín pointed to the north, towards the mountains. “Are you looking for the coyote’s camp?” Carolina’s heart took a violent leap.

“How do you know? Because you are not the first woman who comes walking through the desert with that look.” He paused. “And because I saw when they took your sister, Carolina felt that the world stopped. She grabbed his arm tightly that she didn’t know he had. Did you see it? Did you see Maria? A blonde girl crying. Yes, I saw it.

Where is he? Where do they have it? Joaquín let go carefully. 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 at the mountain range and there was something dark in his eyes, something that seemed guilty. “Because I have my reasons.” He slung his carbine over his shoulder.

“Rest for an hour. Then we continue. There is no time to lose. Carolina did not trust Joaquín. How could a man who appears out of nowhere in the middle of the desert who claims to have seen Mary, who offers help without asking for anything in return, trust. In northern Mexico, no one did anything for nothing, but they had no choice either. She would die alone in two more days.

With him at least she had a chance of arriving alive. He rested that hour under the mesquite, forcing himself to ration the water that Joaquín gave him, forcing himself to ignore the pain in his feet destroyed by the stones. Joaquín sat a few meters away chewing something that looked like dried jerky, with his eyes fixed on the horizon, as if he could see things that she did not see, did not speak. And that was somehow worse than if he were talking.

When the sun began to go down, Joaquín got up without saying a word. Carolina followed him, limping her teeth so as not to complain. They walked for hours, already in the cool of the sunset, 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 with him, but every muscle in her body screamed for him to stop. “How long is it?” she asked when she couldn’t take it anymore. One day, maybe two. It depends on whether the coyote trackers are around here. Carolina felt her heart tighten. They’re looking for us. They’re always looking. Joaquin spat on the ground.

The coyote doesn’t forgive someone for escaping him. And you are a witness to what they did. That makes you dangerous. I didn’t run away. They left me alive. That’s worse. Joaquin looked at her for the first time since they started walking. It means they didn’t care or that 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 well too. Now she had the answer and it hurt more than any blow. They camped when the night fell completely, without fire, because smoke can be seen for miles in the desert. Joaquín gave her more ceesina and water and Carolina ate in silence, feeling how her body asked for more, but knowing that she had to hold back.

The desert night was cold, so cold that his bones hurt, and he wrapped himself in the old serape that Joaquín lent him without saying anything. Why are you helping me? Carolina asked suddenly, breaking the silence that had become unbearable. Joaquín did not answer immediately. He stared at the stars, those stars that shone so clearly in the northern sky that they seemed to be within reach. I told you, I have my reasons.

That’s no answer. It’s the only one you’re going to have for now.” Carolina clutched the revolver she was carrying at her waist, feeling the cold metal against her skin. How do I know you’re not going to hand me over to them, Joaquin? She laughed, but it was a dry, humorless laugh. If I wanted to hand you over, I would have done it by now.

They pay well for anyone who brings information. She turned to look at her, but I don’t work for the coyote, no more. Those last two words hung in the air like smoke. No more. Carolina felt something churning in her stomach. Did you work for him? We’ve all worked for someone at some point. Joaquín leaned back on his mat. Sleep.

Tomorrow we’re going to walk all day. But Carolina didn’t sleep. She lay awake looking at Joaquín’s back, wondering what kind of man he was, what secrets he carried, and, above all, wondering if he had made a mistake in accepting her help, because something in the way he spoke, in the way he moved, told her that Joaquín was not a simple tracker, he was something else, something dangerous.

At dawn they continued walking. The landscape changed little by little. The flat desert gave way to rocky hills, dry canyons, boulders that rose like sleeping giants. The heat was still brutal, but at least there was more shade. Joaquín pointed to the north, where a dark line could be seen on the horizon.

The mountains, that’s where they are. How long is it? If we continue like this, we’ll arrive tomorrow at dusk. 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 shattered boots.

Every hour that passed was one more hour that Mary spent in the hands of those animals. Every hour was an eternity. At noon, Joaquín stopped suddenly, raised his hand for silence, bent down, examined the ground. Carolina approached slowly, her heart pounding. What’s going on? Footprints. Three horses, maybe four, passed by a few hours ago.

Joaquín got up, scanned the horizon. They go south, probably trackers coming from the camp. Did you see us? No, but that means they are nearby. We have to move faster. They walked for hours without stopping, hopping from shadow to shadow, avoiding ridges where their silhouettes would be seen against the sky.

Carolina felt that her lungs were going to burst, that her legs were going to break, but she didn’t complain. Joaquín didn’t slow down either and at some point Carolina began to respect him for that. He did not treat her as a fragile woman, he treated her as an equal. In the evening, they came to a narrow canyon where a trickle of water ran between the stones. Joaquín knelt down, drank directly from the stream and Carolina did the same.

The water was cold, almost icy and tasted like glory after hours of dust and thirst. We’re going to stay here tonight, Joaquin said. It’s a good place to hide and you need to rest those feet. Carolina took off her boots, saw the blisters burst, the skin raw. Joaquín took out of his backpack a rag and some green leaves that Carolina did not recognize.

“Governor,” he explained, “the Taraumara use it for wounds.” He chewed the leaves until he made a green paste. He smeared it on Carolina’s feet with almost delicate care. She winced, but didn’t complain. Joaquín bandaged his feet with the cloth, he squeezed well. Tomorrow you will be able to walk better. Why do you know so much about the desert? asked Carolina. 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 like understanding, connection, but she also felt something else, distrust, because Joaquín still didn’t tell her the whole truth. And how did you end up with the coyote? Joaquín got up abruptly.

I’m going to get something to eat. Stay here. Don’t make noise. He disappeared among the rocks before Carolina could say anything more. She was left alone in the canyon. listening to the murmur of the water, feeling how the night fell quickly as always in the desert, and in that silence he realized something.

Joaquín was running from his past as much as she was chasing hers. When he returned, he had two dead rabbits already skinned. He made a small fire between the rocks where the smoke would not be seen and roasted the meat in silence. Carolina ate with ferocious hunger. feeling how the strength returned to his body. Joaquín barely ate a bite.

“Tomorrow,” he finally said, “we are 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 the air get stuck in her throat. “What if it’s not there?” then we follow the trail. But it has to be there. The coyote does not move from the camp just like that, it is his strength.

And what are we going to do? The two of us entered against 30 armed men. Joaquín looked her straight in the eye. No, we’re going to wait for the right moment and when it arrives we’re going to go in quickly, get your sister out and leave before they know it. That is suicide. All this is suicide. Joaquín leaned back.

But it’s the only plan we have. Carolina lay awake again, staring at the dying embers of the fire, thinking of Maria, wondering if she was still alive, if she still had hope. And thinking about Joaquín, about the secrets he carried, about the shadows he saw in his eyes, every time he talked about the coyote, something didn’t add up. And Carolina knew it, but she didn’t have time to figure out what it was.

He only had time to keep going, to trust enough to get to camp, to press the revolver to his chest and pray that the five bullets would be enough. At dawn, Joaquín woke her up with a tap on the shoulder. The sun was just rising, painting the sky blood red. It’s time. Today we arrive.

Carolina got up, put her boots on her bandaged feet, gritted her teeth against the pain. Joaquín held out his canteen to her. Here, you’re going to need strength. She drank, nodded and they began to walk towards the mountains, towards the red rocks where the river broke, towards the place where Maria waited without knowing that her sister was coming for her. Or maybe he did.

Perhaps in some corner of her broken heart, Maria still had hope and that hope was the only thing keeping Carolina alive. They climbed through narrow canyons, along paths that seemed to be made by goats, over stones so sharp that they cut. The landscape became wilder, more hostile. Twisted pines grew among the rocks. Low dwarfs clung to the dry land. The air smelled different up here.

to Resina, to wet earth, to something ancient. “We’re close,” Joaquin whispered, “very close.” And then he saw smoke, a thin thread of smoke rising from a valley hidden in the mountains. The Coyote’s Camp. Carolina felt that all the hatred, all the pain, all the rage that she had carried for days was concentrated in a burning point in her chest. There he was, there were the men who took everything from him.

And there, somewhere in that cursed camp, was Mary. Joaquín grabbed her arm, pulled her behind some rocks. Wait, we can’t just get closer. We need a plan. But Carolina was no longer listening. I was looking at the smoke, imagining the faces of those men, imagining the bullet entering the forehead of the one-eyed man, imagining the coyote falling dead.

And for the first time in days he smiled. Joachim forced her back, away from the edge where the valley opened up 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 go of me, Carolina hissed, calm down.

If they see us now, we both die and your sister stays there forever. The words fell like cold water on Carolina’s rage. Joaquín was right and that made her even more angry, but she remained still, breathing deeply, forcing herself to think clearly, even though her whole body screamed to run down and empty the revolver on the first son of a bitch she found.

“We have to wait until nightfall,” Joaquin said. Observe, count how many there are, see where they have women, look for the best point to enter and exit. The women, Carolina looked at him. There is more, there is always more. The coyote is not just a bandit, he is a trafficker. He sells them at the border. That’s why your sister is still alive, she still has value for him.

Carolina felt the bile rise in her throat. He imagined Mary in the hands of those animals waiting to be sold like cattle, and she had to bite her lip until she bled to keep from screaming. They spent the hours hidden among the motionless trees watching.

The camp was bigger than Carolina had imagined. Mud and wood huts scattered among the rocks. Corrals with horses, smoking campfires. He counted at least 20 men moving between the buildings, all armed, all with that air of casual violence that men who kill without thinking twice have. And then he saw her.

Maria came out of one of the huts, pushed by a fat, bearded man. Her dress was torn, her hair was matted, but she was alive. Carolina felt that her heart was going to jump out of her chest. She wanted to shout her name, she wanted to run towards her, but Joaquín put his hand over her mouth. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. Don’t worry, you’ve seen her, she’s alive.

Now we need to get her out of there. Carolina nodded with tears burning her eyes. Maria walked with difficulty, limping with her head down. Two more men followed her laughing at something. One of them slapped her on the butt and she staggered. Carolina clenched the revolver until her knuckles turned white.

The one-eyed man, Joachim murmured, pointing to the man who was walking behind Mary. That’s the coyote’s lieutenant place. If you kill him, the others will be left without command. I’m going to kill him, Carolina said in a flat voice. To him and to all those who touched her. First we take it out, then we settle accounts. But Carolina was no longer sure she could wait that long.

They continued to watch until the sun began to go down. Joachim drew a rudimentary map on the ground with a branch. The hut where they have the women is here, east of the camp. Two guards at the door, maybe further inside. The best route is along the river, taking advantage of the rocks as cover. We enter when they are all asleep.

We take your sister out and go through the North Canyon before dawn. And if we get caught, then we improvise and probably die. Carolina looked at him. You don’t have to do this. You can leave now. Joaquín looked back at her and for the first time Carolina saw something genuine in her eyes, something similar to pain. “Yes, I have to.

Before Carolina could ask why, they heard something. Steps, branches breaking. Someone was climbing up the hillside to where they were hiding. Joaquín made a sign and they both crouched behind a rock holding their breath. A man appeared among the trees, skinny, with a rifle on his shoulder, checking the perimeter.

He passed less than 5 met from where they were, so close that Carolina could see the scars on his face, the rusty machete on his belt, his heart pounding so hard he thought the man would hear him. But the watchman went on, disappeared among the pines. Carolina let out the air she had been holding.

Joaquín waited several more minutes before moving. They already know that someone can be nearby. They’re going to put more guards tonight. So we have to go in now before it gets dark. It’s more dangerous. All this is dangerous. Carolina got up. But every hour that passes is one more hour that my sister suffers down there.

Joaquín looked at her for a long time as if evaluating something. He finally nodded. It’s okay, but we need help. Help from whom? of someone who knows these directions better than I do. Joaquín pointed to the west, where the mountains became wilder. The Raramurí have rancherias nearby and there is a woman, if she is still alive, she can help us. Who is his name? Lupita.

The coyote killed his family two years ago. If we tell him that we are going after him, he joins us. How do you know she’s alive? Because I’ve seen it. She walks alone in the mountains like a ghost. They say he kills any coyote man he finds alone. Carolina felt something similar to Esperanza. They were not completely alone. They came down the mountain carefully, away from the camp, moving west.

The terrain became rockier, wilder. They walked for hours as the sun set painting the sky orange and purple. Joaquín followed traces that Carolina could not see, invisible footprints in the stone, signs that only someone raised in the desert would understand. When night fell, they came to a clearing among the rocks where there were remains of a campfire.

Joaquín knelt down, touched the ashes, recent, less than a day, he is close. And if he doesn’t want to help us, then we go on our own. But something tells me that he will want to. They sat and waited without firing in silence. Carolina felt every muscle tense, every nerve alert. There was something in the air.

something I couldn’t name, as if the desert itself was holding its breath. And then they saw it. She came out of the shadows so silently that Carolina almost screamed. A woman older than Carolina, but not old, with sun-tanned skin and eyes that shone with savage intelligence.

He had a rifle crossed on his back, a machete on his waist and clothes that seemed to be made of scraps of everything he had found on his way. Her long black hair was braided with strips of leather. Joaquín the coward said in a hoarse voice, I thought you would be dead by now, Lupita. Joaquín did not get up. We need your help. Help. The woman laughed humorlessly. For what? Why do you betray me as you betrayed yours? Carolina felt something break inside her. He looked at Joaquín. What are you talking about? Joaquín closed his eyes.

Lupita, let me explain. There is nothing to explain. The woman spat on the ground. Everyone knows that Joaquín el 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 anymore. Carolina felt that the world stopped.

He slowly rose, his hand reaching for the revolver at his waist. It’s true. Joaquín opened his eyes and in them Carolina saw confirmation, she saw guilt. He saw shame. “Carolina, leave me. Were you there?” he asked in a trembling voice. That night when they killed Rafael, when they took Maria, silence was enough of a response.

Carolina took out the revolver, aimed it directly at Joaquín’s head. His hands did not tremble. Not anymore. Give me a reason not to kill you right now. Joaquín didn’t move, he didn’t raise his hands, he just looked at her with those black eyes full of guilt. I have no reason. If you want to kill me, do it. I deserve it. Carolina felt her finger on the trigger. He felt the weight of the gun.

He felt all the hatred and pain concentrated in that moment. I could kill him. I had to kill him. This man had been there. He had seen Rafael being killed. She had seen how she was raped. He had seen how they took María away and had done nothing. Why? He whispered.

Why didn’t you stop them? Because I’m a coward,” Joaquin said in a broken voice, “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 it either.

My husband is dead because of you. I know. My sister is down there suffering because of you. I know. I, I, Carolina, couldn’t finish the sentence. Tears choked in his throat. He lowered the weapon trembling, feeling everything crumble again. She had trusted him, she had walked with him in the desert, she had let him heal her feet, give her water, give her hope. And it had all been a lie.

Lupita approached slowly, knelt next to Carolina, put a hand on her shoulder. Don’t kill him yet, girl. Not because I don’t deserve it, but because you need it. He knows the camp better than anyone. Know where they have 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 it. Lupita looked at Joaquín with contempt.

And when we’re done, when you take your sister out, then you kill him or I’ll do it for you. Carolina stood there on her knees in the cold earth, with the revolver dangling uselessly in her hand, feeling how everything she had built in her head was collapsing. Joaquín was not their ally, he was their enemy, one of them.

And she had been so stupid, so desperate, that she hadn’t seen him. Okay, he finally said in a dead voice. We use it, but when this is over, Joaquin, 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 got up, spat again. How nice. Now that we have had this emotional moment, let’s get to the important thing. 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 distraction, something that takes him out of camp or at least divides his attention. He looked at Carolina. Do you know how to shoot? My father taught me. What also? Carolina raised the revolver, aimed at a cactus 20 m away, fired. The prickly pear burst. Four bullets remaining. Lupita smiled for the first time.

Okay, so this can 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 will be nothing left to do. How do we know if he is going to sell it tomorrow? Because that son of a bitch moves merchandise every three days. And by my count, Lupita left the words hanging in the cold night air.

Carolina felt her stomach twist. According to your accounts, tomorrow is the third day since I saw the coyote go down to the town of San Isidro. He always does the same thing. He gathers the women, takes them down to the border, gives them to the gringos who buy them. Lupita looked at where the camp was, although from there she could not see anything.

If we don’t get your sister out tonight, she won’t be there tomorrow. The world shrank to that moment. One night, that was all they had. Carolina felt panic rise through her throat like boiling water, but she pushed it down with all the strength she had left.

There was no time for fear, there was no time for doubts. So we go in tonight,” he said in a voice that did not admit discussion, without a plan, without sufficient weapons against 25 men. Lupita laughed humorlessly. Alright, we’re going to die, but at least we’re going to die with eggs. We are not going to die. Joaquín got up.

I know of a place where the coyote keeps weapons and ammunition, a hiding place on 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 eye. 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 given you up when you were half dead in the desert, but I didn’t and I’m not going to. Why? Why do you decide to grow awareness 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 my family was killed. And I realized that if I didn’t do something, if I didn’t stop this even once, then it wasn’t worth staying alive anymore. The words floated between them. Carolina wanted not to believe him.

She wanted to continue hating him with all her being. But something in the way Joaquin spoke, something in the raw pain of his voice made him hesitate. Lupita broke the silence. Very nice speech. Now let’s get to the important stuff. He pointed north. If that cache of weapons exists, let’s go for them.

If Joaquín is betraying us, I kill him myself and we shoot our way through. I agree? Carolina nodded. I had no choice. They moved silently across the sierra, three shadows slipping between the pines and rocks. Lupita was moving forward like a wild animal without making a sound. Joaquín was in the middle leading.

Carolina closed the march with the revolver in her hand and her eyes fixed on Joaquín’s back, ready to shoot him if he tried anything. The moon was barely crescent, giving enough light to see, but not so much as to give them away. They went down a narrow canyon where the water had carved strange shapes into the stone. They passed dark caves that looked like open mouths on the mountain.

In the distance, far below, you could see the campfires of the coyote’s camp, little dots of orange light in the darkness. Joaquín stopped next to a rock wall that seemed solid. He ran his hands across the surface looking for something. She found a crack that Carolina hadn’t seen. He put his fingers in, pulled. A section of the wall moved revealing a narrow opening. “Here,” he whispered.

Lupita entered first with the rifle ready. Carolina followed her, clutching her revolver. Inside he smelled damp and gunpowder. Joaquín lit a match and the trembling 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 have heard that he wants to ally himself with the federals, to attack some Villista position, that is why he needs so many weapons. Carolina did not listen. 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, smiled. I like this one. He took two boxes of bullets. Now we are even. Joaquín loaded a carbine, threw a backpack with cartridges on his shoulder. The plan is simple, Lupita. You create the distraction on the west side of the camp. You set fire to the corrals, you shoot, you make noise.

When everyone runs over there, Carolina and I go in from the east, take the women out, go through the north canyon. What if it doesn’t work? Carolina asked. So we used the dynamite and blew everything up to the sky. But that means your sister will probably die too. Carolina felt the cold of those words. So it has to work. They came out of hiding, closed the entrance. The night was darker, now clouds covering the moon.

That was good. Darkness was his ally. They separated on the hillside. Lupita going west, Carolina and Joaquín going down to the east. As they went downstairs, Carolina whispered, “If you betray me, if this is a trap, I swear that with my last bullet I blow your head off.

It’s not cheating, I swear to you by the memory of my dead sister.” They reached the edge of the camp. From there they could see the huts, the almost extinguished bonfires, the silhouettes of the guards moving in the shadows. Everything was still, too still, as if the camp itself was holding its breath. They waited every second.

It was an eternity. Carolina felt the sweat running down her back despite the cold of the night. He clenched the revolver until his fingers hurt. He thought of Mary down there, in one of those huts, not knowing that his sister was meters away. And then all hell broke out. An explosion shook the west side of the camp.

Flames rose 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 towards the hut, where they had the women. Two guards were at the door, but they were looking at where the fire was, confused.

Joaquín moved like a shadow, he broke the skull of the first with the butt of the carbine. Carolina shot the second before she could scream. The man fell with a hole in his chest. Three remaining bullets pushed the door. Inside it smelled of fear and dirt. Three women were tied up on the ground with huge eyes of terror. One of them was Maria.

“Carolina,” Maria shouted in a broken voice. Carolina ran to her, cut the ropes with the machete that Joaquín had given her. He hugged her so tightly that he almost didn’t let her breathe. “I’m here, little sister. I am here. We are going to get out of this. Joachim cut the ropes of the other two women, young girls who kept shaking.

They can come with us or stay, but if they come, they have to run fast and not make noise. The two nodded desperately. They left the hut just as the most explosions were shaking the camp. Lupita was doing magic with that dynamite. They ran north, toward the canyon, with Maria limping between Carolina and Joaquin.

The other two women kept stumbling, getting up, stumbling again. They were halfway there when someone shouted behind them. They are taking away the old women. Joaquín turned, shot without aiming. A man fell. But there were already more coming, many more. Run, Joaquín shouted. I stop them. Carolina grabbed his arm. You come with us.

If I go with you, you reach us all. Joaquín pushed her. Get your sister out. That’s all that matters. Joaquín, go. It’s my chance to do something right for the first time in my life. Carolina saw in his eyes that she was not going to change her mind and there was no time. The coyote’s men were getting closer and closer, shooting, screaming.

He took Maria by the hand, ran into the canyon with the other women following them. Behind her she heard Joaquín shooting, shouting insults, drawing the men to him. He heard explosions, heard screams of pain, and then he heard something else, the voice of the coyote. Joaquín the traitor, I’m going to skin you alive, you 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. A 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. Joaquín. 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 nodded, 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 María. She felt her uneven 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 it destroyed my life. The old man nodded slowly. Those are good reasons to hate. But hate doesn’t kill the coyote. He has a lot of rifles. We have few arrows. He has a hideout full of weapons. If we kill him, they can keep everything. Rifles, ammunition, horses, whatever you want.

The old man looked at her with something that seemed respectful. You’re smart, but you’re still a lonely woman, with a broken heart. How do I know you’re not leading us into a trap? Because I’ve already gotten my sister out of there. It could be far away 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 up at the sky as if looking for signs in the clouds. He finally said, “My son was 14 years old when the coyote’s men found him hunting. He was killed for sport. For fun, the voice barely slurred. They left his body for the animals to eat. It took me three days to find it.

What was left of him. I am sorry. I don’t want your grief, I want your blood. The old man spat. If you give me a chance to shed that blood, I, my men, will go with you. But it has to be soon. Tomorrow the coyote goes down to town. If we wait, it escapes us. Tonight, Carolina said, we attacked.

Tonight the old man smiled joylessly. Tonight then I’m going to gather those who want to fight. There will be few of us, maybe eight or 10. But we know the mountains, we know how to hunt. That’s enough. Lupita and Carolina returned to the cave. Mary was awake, sitting against the rock wall, her eyes red from crying.

When he saw Carolina, he tried to get up, but he couldn’t. Where did you go? I thought you had left me. Carolina knelt next to her, hugged her. I’m never going to leave you, never, but I need you to understand something. He pulled her aside to look into her eyes. I’m going back to camp. I’m going to wrap this up. No.

Maria grabbed her arm. No, Carolina, you already got me out. That’s enough. Let’s go far, anywhere, but don’t go back there. I can’t leave knowing that they are still there, that they can do to someone else what they did to you. I don’t care what they do to others. Mary was crying. I only care about you. I’ve already lost Rafael. I can’t lose you too.

Carolina felt her heart break. I wanted to promise you that I would return. I wanted to tell him that everything would be fine, but I couldn’t lie to him. No, after all, I have to, little sister. I have to, because if I don’t, I’m going to carry this hatred until it rots inside and you don’t deserve a rotten sister.

Maria lowered her head in defeat. So, promise me you’re coming back. Swear to me by the memory of Raphael. I swear. Two broken sisters embraced silently trying to stay together, even as the world conspired to tear them apart. In the evening, Carolina and Lupita met Ignacio and his men at an agreed point 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’re going to load that anyway. But if you let me live, I can give you something better. I can give you power. Carolina looked at him. He saw an ordinary man trying to negotiate his life. He saw fear hidden behind the soft words and saw something else. He saw that he was right. Killing him wasn’t going to change anything. Rafael would still be dead.

Maria would still be broken, she would still be empty, but she couldn’t let him live either. Lupita came running with the winchesterume with blood splattered on her face. He stood next to Carolina. It’s mine. He 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. Your daughter’s was an accident. It wasn’t personal. It was a time of war and don’t say his name. Lupita’s voice was ice.

You don’t have the right to say his name, please. Lupita hit him in the face with the butt of the rifle. The coyote fell spitting out blood and teeth. Lupita kicked him in the ribs once, twice. She kept kicking until he curled up like a worm. My daughter was 8 years old. Eight. And your men used it like rag. Lupita trembled 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 had always been underneath. Sorry, sorry. Me too. Lupita raised her rifle. I’m sorry you can’t die more than once, he fired. The bullet shattered his knee. The coyote screamed.

Lupita turned him around, put him face down, put the cannon on the back of his neck. He dies like a bastard dog. He fired again. The body of the coyote Salazar shook one last time and remained still. Lupita stood on top of him, breathing heavily, crying without sound. Carolina put a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t say anything, there was nothing to say.

The camp had fallen silent. The shooting had stopped. Those who did not 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 that this stupid war had claimed. Carolina walked back toward the center. Joaquín was still tied to the post, now unconscious.

He cut the ropes, dropped him carefully to the ground. He was barely alive, but alive. He breathed in short, painful gasps. Why did you save him?, Lupita asked, arriving next to her. I don’t know. Carolina looked at Joaquín’s shattered back. Maybe because there has been enough death. Or maybe because it saved my life.

There he saved you. Because I owed it to him. That doesn’t make it good. No, but it makes it human. Carolina got up. I’m going to get something to take it with. If we leave him here, he’s going to die of his wounds. He found a mat. Between three of them they wrapped him up as best they could. Joaquín groaned, but did not wake up. Ignatius sent two of his men to carry him. What are they going to do now?, old Rarairi asked.

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.