A Murder on the Border: The Border Saga

By Billly Wittenberg

A naive teen girl meets the perfect man. She dreams of a family of her own. What she finds is murder and a fight for her life.

Maria is a teenager living in a catholic orphanage. She's about to age out and is looking at an impoverished life on the streets of Nuevo Laredo.

Victor seems the perfect match to spare her a life of hardship. He's young and dashing and owns his own business. She falls in love in a whirlwind romance. Soon she's pregnant with their child.

But Victor is not the man she thinks he is.

What follows is a desperate flight across the border to save herself and her unborn child. Victor becomes obsessed with finding his lost son. He tracks her movements, leaving death in his wake. When he finds her, she is forced to make a choice.

Give up the only family she's ever known?

Or stand and fight?

A Murder on the Border is the first novel in a thriller series that spans decades. If you like compelling characters, pulse-pounding suspense, and deadly twists of fate, you'll love Billy Wittenberg's debut novel.

Pick up A Murder on the Border and start this new thriller series today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Buffalo Bayou Publishing LLC
• Release date: Dec 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215133514

Book preview

A Murder on the Border

Billy Wittenberg

Buffalo Bayou Publishing LLC

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The Soup Factory is an action and suspense thriller that will keep you guessing to the very end. If you like white-knuckle action and edge-of-your-seat suspense, you'll love Billy Wittenberg's page-turning novella.

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Contents

Pajarito

Book One

1. Pajarito

2. Speechless

3. Adiós

4. La Plaza

5. Pendant

6. Feliz Cumpleaños

7. Home

8. The Bloody Egg

9. Breathe

10. War

11. Moving Day

12. La Bruja

13. Protest

14. Blood Moon

15. Boy

Book Two

16. The Troublemaker

17. Truce

18. Viva La Huelga

19. ¡Arriba!

20. Mi Familia

21. Blessed Son

22. Las Cucarachas

23. The Hunting Kit

24. La Migra

25. Sanctuary

26. Chepe’s Cantina

27. Sickness

28. Another One

Book Three

29. Delicioso Caldo

30. Dead End

31. Confession

32. Feral

33. The Phone Call, Part One

34. The Phone Call, Part Two

35. The Advantage

36. The Approach

37. Reunion

38. Papá

39. Safety

40. Surprise

41. Loss

42. Peace

43. Nombre

The End

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About The Author

Dedication

Copyright

Pajarito

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Pajarito pajarito

¿Qué cantas en tu nido?

Con tan melodiosa voz,

¿A quien cantas pajarito?

Y el ave responde: A dios.

Little bird, little bird

What do you sing in your nest?

With such a melodious voice,

Who do you sing to little bird?

And the bird replies, To God.

– Poem taught to Mexican schoolchildren

Book One

Chapter 1

Pajarito

Today was the biggest day of Maria’s life. She would leave nothing to chance. She buckled her black sandals and stood from her bunk to inspect her appearance in the mirror. A vertical crack ran the length of the glass surface, splintering her reflection in unequal halves. She centered herself in the larger half and straightened her clothes. The mended hole in her blouse couldn’t be helped. Neither could the gray dinge of the white cotton. As long as the blouse was cleaned and pressed, they would understand. She tugged her straight black hair into a ponytail and knotted it using a frilled maroon tie that spread like a rose above the knot. She checked her appearance once more. Inhale. Exhale.

"Vamos," she breathed, pushing herself to leave the safety of her room. 

She stepped around her roommate, who assumed Maria’s place in front of the mirror, and headed into the hallway. The cramped room was one of ten that lined either side of the dorm. Her sandals click-clacked on the tiled floor and mingled with the murmur of other children buttoning buttons and inspecting reflected images.

Wooden light fixtures descended from the high ceiling, though the dim bulbs did little to brighten the chamber. She passed flickering wall sconces and a faded tapestry of Mary and the baby Jesus. Years before, when she first arrived at Casa de La Morenita as a tearful child, Maria believed the infant’s gaze followed her as she walked. His staring eyes even appeared in her dreams, studying her in silence. The image terrified her. Though now freed of this fear, she hung her head low and hurried past.

Bare cinder blocks, aged bleak gray from years of candle flicker, covered the opposite side of the hall. She assumed her customary place and pressed her back against the wall.

Cool morning air flowed through fluttering drapes, chilling the hall, but not Maria’s nerves. She wiped her damp palms on the back of her skirt, careful not to leave a wet spot they might notice.

Noisy children arrived in ones and twos and joined Maria against the wall, standing shoulder to shoulder and jostling for position. Similarly clad in white tops and black bottoms, the children fidgeted with last second uniform adjustments. Being the oldest, Maria towered over most of the children. The residents of Casa de La Morenita ranged from five to sixteen years of age, but no older. Never older.

At the squeak of rusty hinges, Maria arched her back and squared her shoulders. They had arrived.

Two nuns, clad in black and white habits, passed through the doorway at the end of the chamber. They assumed positions in front of the assembly and leveled them all with an icy stare.

Silence! barked Sister Isabel. Her command thundered through the hall as everyone hushed under her sweeping gaze. La Madre Superiora Leticia Luisa Barrientos y Acosta, the headmistress of the home, stepped in front of the girl beside Maria. Her narrowed eyes flitted from the girl’s sandals to her blouse.

"Muy bien, Superiora Leticia said, nodding her approval of the girl’s uniform. Kitchen."

Sister Isabel nodded and marked the assignment on her clipboard.

Maria tensed as La Superiora’s gaze shifted to her.

Superiora, Sister Isabel said, Maria has requested a pass for this evening.

Has she? her wrinkled lips pursed in thought. What is the purpose of this pass?

I’m going out— Maria said.

Maria has a suitor, Sister Isabel interrupted.

A suitor? And what are this suitor’s intentions?

He— Maria began.

I’m speaking to Sister Isabel! Superiora Leticia snapped. Maria cringed and nodded. La Superiora did not suffer children speaking out of turn for long.

I don’t know, but he has been respectful and God fearing. He has joined us for Mass and has purchased food for our pantry. He is an older boy with a job.

Is he? Superiora Leticia lifted her brow and clasped her hands below her waist. She considered that response before turning to Maria with a curious gaze. How old are you, child?

Sixteen, Superiora, she rasped through a parched throat.

And when is your birthday?

December 10th.

In two months, she said. You understand what happens on your seventeenth birthday?

"Sí, Superiora." How could she not? Every orphan’s sixteenth birthday began a yearlong reminder of the day they would leave the only home they knew.

Well, Miss Benavidez, time is running out for you. She drummed her bony fingers on the back of her opposite hand. What is this young man’s name?

Victor Mata, Maria said.

Tell me, Miss Benavidez, do you love Victor?

Heat sparked red inside Maria’s cheeks. Life in a Catholic orphanage dictated the nuns overseeing the children take an active role in parenting. Maria was used to daily inquisitions of her personal life. But this line of questioning, in front of everyone, and from the headmistress herself, felt cruel. Despite her surroundings, or perhaps because of them, Maria guarded her privacy. But la Superiora awaited, her owl eyes narrowing with dwindling patience. When Maria spoke, the words came out low and quiet, like the honesty of a guilty child.

Sí, Superiora.

What did you say? Speak up, child!

Sí, Superiora! Maria’s voice reverberated through the hall. Someone’s sly snigger granted Maria a momentary stay as the headmistress searched for the insolent child. Finding no one to blame, she returned her attention to Maria.

Miss Benavidez, do you wish to marry Victor? To become Mrs. Victor Mata and to bear his children?

Maria’s jaw slackened at the question. Why was this happening? Of all days. She stared into the headmistress’s eyes, not in search of an answer but for a reprieve. She found none in the woman’s blank gaze. Maria’s curious housemates leaned in for the answer.

Sí, Superiora.

Muy bien, Superiora Leticia said, satisfied with the response. You have a chance before you to win this young man’s heart. He sounds like a fine Catholic boy who can provide for you. Now tell me, will you honor and obey your husband?

Sí, Superiora.

The headmistress took one step forward, her focus locked on Maria. Do you understand? Really understand what that means?

Uh… I… Maria searched for an acceptable response, but la Superiora spoke first.

"Ephesians 5:22, she said. ‘Wives, obey your husbands as you obey the Lord.’ Do you obey the Lord, Maria?"

Sí, Superiora.

Why? Her lips pursed and her brow raised.

Maria stammered and thought of a response. Because he’s God, why else? Then a flash of inspiration.

Because I love Him.

Correct! You love the Lord, and therefore you trust him. And because you trust him, you obey him. She leaned forward, her sharp eyes twinkling. You must prove to Victor that you love him so. Your devotion to him must be as it would to God. Her thin lips curled as she allowed her words to sink in. Then she stood and nodded towards Sister Isabel. Pass approved.

Oppressive weight lifted from Maria’s chest, and fresh air filled her lungs.

Sister Isabel marked the decision on her paper as Superiora Leticia returned her gaze to Maria. Her lips pursed as she examined Maria’s feet.

And bathroom duty. Scuffed shoes.

Maria looked down at her black sandals. A smudge, no larger than a thumbprint, stared back at her from the side of one shoe.

We’ll get you married off, Miss Benavidez. And just in time. The nuns turned in unison and continued down the line.

Maria exhaled. It hadn’t been easy, but she had done her part. Tonight, she would see if Victor did his. So what if she had to clean the restroom with those hideous ancient commodes? No matter. She would scrub the toilets with a song in her heart. For tonight, she believed, was the night he would ask her to be his wife.

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Sister Isabel cautioned Maria not to get her hopes too high. Men were simple creatures to read. But the prospect of marriage made enigmas of them all. She needed to keep her composure, remain a lady. Make him come to her. Maria nodded, but practice was harder than understanding. Her resolve crumbled seconds after he stepped out of his cherry red Mustang.

He stood from the driver’s seat and fitted a white cowboy hat over flowing light brown hair that fell to his shoulders like a hard rain. His button-down shirt hung on his wide shoulders as if displayed on a mannequin. He squinted against the setting sun as he turned towards Maria. A thin smile creased his thin lips.

Maria glanced over her shoulder at the open windows of the home. Confident everyone was safely seated for dinner, she raced past the wooden gate with a compressed squeal.

Baby! she said, and dashed into his arms. I missed you!

She pulled him close and planted her lips on his. Electric warmth charged her senses. It was still novel to her, this skin-to-skin contact, and she dissolved in its wake.

Well, hello to you, too. Victor’s stubbled chin tickled as he pulled away.

I missed you so much. Maria nuzzled his muscular chest and breathed deep, transported by his familiar cologne.

Are you ready to go?

She gazed into his green eyes and was lost.

Yes. Anywhere with you.

She climbed into the passenger seat while he reclaimed his place behind the steering wheel.

Where are we going?

It’s a secret. Victor winked. Do you trust me? He turned the ignition, and the engine roared to life.

Always.

Maria settled into her seat and watched the orphanage glide past. With its flaking plaster and tin roof, the building had been home since she was six. For all its flaws, with its taskmaster nuns and quarrelsome roommates, it offered things no other home could. Structure. Safety. Even family. Of a sort, anyway. Someday she would have a family of her own. Hopefully soon.

She continued watching until the building faded from view.

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On most dates, Victor chatted and flirted with an easy bravado. But tonight, he stared ahead in gloomy silence. Maria assumed his business was causing him worry.

Is everything OK, my love? she said, stroking his forearm.

Hm? He glanced down, as if surprised by her touch. He gave a half grin and relaxed his grip on the wheel. I’m fine.

I’m sorry. I can give you a rubdown later.

Yes. Later, he said, and focused on the road. Maria wished he would tell her what bothered him. But she would support him, regardless. Like a good wife should.

She drummed her fingers on her knees and turned her thoughts to another subject.

So, what should we name him?

What? Confusion etched his face.

Maria stroked her belly and smiled. Victor Jr. Yes?

We don’t know it’s a boy.

I know.

It wasn’t the missed periods or nausea or strange cravings for dirt that made Maria believe the child was a boy. It was the sense that somebody was with her at all times. Another soul inhabiting her own. And this soul had the same energy and vigor as his father.

You’re sixteen and think you know everything.

I may be young, but I know this. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and squeezed. He’s a boy.

We don’t know that, he said and turned his gaze towards the road.

Maria’s fingers traced loving ovals on her belly. Only six more months to go. Come April, she would hold him in her arms and look into his eyes. She imagined his chubby cheeks and tousled hair. Would he have her black hair or Victor’s light brown? No matter. He would be a beautiful baby, regardless. 

Victor took Maria to visit a doctor last week after her second missed period. The visit took place in the doctor’s home office. He stank of tequila and smoke. He handed her a cup, pointed to his bathroom, and told her to pee in it. Though embarrassed by the request, she complied. She buzzed with excitement to know the result of the test. As did Victor, who seemed particularly insistent. The doctor phoned and gave them the joyful news two days earlier. Tonight was Victor and Maria’s first chance to talk about the baby as father and mother. Husband and wife. Maria blushed.

The tan desert faded to dark orange in the fading sunlight. Victor’s Mustang traveled far outside town before it slowed and stopped on the crushed pebble median.

We’re here, he said, his boots crunching on hard gravel as he stepped outside. He turned and waved for her to join him.

Maria remained seated instead and searched the darkening landscape outside. Spindly yucca and spiny prickly pear carpeted the horizon, casting long shadows on the desert floor. Maria sank into her seat, unwilling to leave the safety of the car. What restaurants were out here?

What’s the matter? he said, standing beside her door.

Why are we here?

I told you, it’s a surprise.

In the desert?

Of course! Why else would I stop here?

My love, I’m starving. Can we please just go eat? 

We will, I promise. After you see this. It’s incredible. I found it hiking the other day. It’s not far. I’ll show it to you and then we’ll go eat.

Hiking? Her hopes for a marriage proposal faded in a crush of disappointment. Can’t you just tell me what it is? We’ll come back tomorrow.

Come outside. Please.

If anyone else was asking, she would say no. But how could she refuse her future husband? La Superiora’s words echoed in her head, Your devotion to him must be as it would to God. Her resistance broke with a worried sigh as she reached for the door handle.

OK. I’ll go. She stepped outside and followed as he ascended the hill next to the car. Are you sure you’ll be able to find our way back? 

Of course. I was born in the desert. He marched ahead without looking back.

Maria evaded a cactus and looked back at the Mustang. Then she crested the ridge and disappeared into the darkness. 

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Maria shivered against the bracing desert wind. Her thin blouse and knee-length skirt—selected for a romantic dinner—provided little warmth. She held herself tight and hurried after Victor, who strode forward, undeterred. Moonlight illuminated Maria’s path as they weaved around scrabbly brush, taking care to avoid thorns and sharp-edged branches and leaves. A few found her regardless, raking her bare ankles and sandaled feet. Not wanting to bother Victor, she groaned and soldiered on. Victor traveled in silence, responding to her questions with curt grunts and Yeahs. After several minutes of hiking, he halted at the top of a hill.

Here, he said.

Maria searched for landmarks, like ruins or a geographic oddity, but found only a twisted, withered oak next to a dried riverbed.

Is it that tree?

Yes.

He raised his arm in invitation. Maria stepped forward, but halted after a few paces and glanced back at Victor. He stood rigid, most of his features hidden in the shadow of night, except for his eyes, which remained fixed on her.

Are you coming?

He stayed silent but stepped towards her, his booted feet crunching on the hard desert floor.

Maria breathed deep and pushed forward, eager to dispense with the hike. She chose each footfall with care to avoid more painful encounters with the spindly brush hidden by the gathering night. She wound her way to the base of the tree and stopped. Victor’s bootsteps followed close behind. 

Bark gray and dried to rot, the withered tree was a distant echo of its former self. Maria craned her neck and peered into the gnarled branches to discover the wonder that sparked Victor’s imagination. Instead, she found lines of marching ants munching on dead limbs.

Sorry, Victor, she said, irritated at herself for not spotting what so interested him. What am I supposed to see?

The hard tap of metal on metal was her answer. She blinked in confusion at the alien sound and turned to see what caused it. A frightened gasp escaped her lips when she looked straight into the black center of a silver pistol barrel. She spluttered once before the hammer strike sounded again.

Tap.

Shit! Victor yelled in frustration.

Victor— Maria coughed in a hoarse whisper. Her heart hammered, and her mind reeled at the bizarre scene before her. Her lover, the man she thought would propose marriage, had pointed a gun at her and squeezed the trigger. Twice. Impossible.

Shut up! Victor pulled the pistol back and sneered when he examined the ejection chamber.

Maria watched him inspect the gun. A spectator to her own murder. She swayed as an adrenaline haze clouded her head.

Are you… she said, glaring at Victor in senseless confusion. You want to… Shoot me?

Bathed in moonlight, Victor faced her and screamed. This is your fault!

What?

Everything was fine! Why did you get pregnant? Spittle flew as he yelled.

What? We… we’re starting a family. Maria wrapped her arms around her flat belly, as if soft flesh and brittle bone could stop flying lead from ripping through her sapling child.

I already have a family! A wife and a son! And a business to run! What makes you think I have time for an orphan girl and her hungry baby? 

Maria’s head swam, and her guts convulsed. She collapsed to her knees, bent forward, and dry heaved her empty stomach onto the cracked desert ground. A son? And a wife?

You’re… married?

Victor cursed as he fought to clear the jammed pistol. He pulled the slide back and released it with no effect. "Don’t act like you didn’t know! ¡Estúpida! As long as we went to nice restaurants, and I treated you like a queen, you played along."

Anger boiled inside her. How could she know? Victor only ever talked about cars and his auto repair shop when they went on dates. And she never asked for gifts or fine dinners. She was happy enough being with him. They could have sat on a park bench all night for all she cared. She wiped her mouth, rocked back on her knees, and scowled.

You want to kill me because I’m pregnant? This is your son!

Victor stepped forward and delivered a vicious right hand to Maria’s nose and mouth. The crunching slap echoed throughout the valley. Her body spun, arms flailing, like a marionette cut free. Her momentum halted in a hard crash at the base of the tree.

Shut up! he roared. You whore! That baby could be anybody’s! 

Maria curled into a ball and covered her stinging face. Coppery blood coated her lips. She winced and gritted desert sand. The nuns had spanked her a few times. Most were half-hearted efforts from Sister Isabel. La Superiora spanked her once with an aged pine paddle. That had been the worst pain she ever experienced. Until now. But instead of silencing her, the blow fed her fury. She glared at him and spat a crimson wad onto the ground.

You coward! You would rather kill me than tell your wife!

Victor scoffed. Who do you think wants you dead?

She wants… Maria shook her head. Your wife knows?

She knows all about you. She knows you got pregnant on purpose.

What?

Don’t play dumb! You knew I would dump you. You wanted to force me to leave my wife. I’m not stupid! he tapped the side of his head. He pressed the magazine eject, pulled the ammo clip from the handle, and tucked it into his pocket.

That’s a lie! If you don’t want me, then I’ll leave! I don’t need you!

And where would you go? You’re a goddamn orphan.

America. I would go across the river to Laredo, she said, speaking of the city sitting on the opposite banks of the Rio Grande River from Nuevo Laredo. Other girls have done it.

It’s too late, he said with a dismissive wave.

So, she tells you to kill me and you do it? Maria choked on a stream of tears.

Victor stopped working on the pistol and faced her. His anger melted into pained exasperation. I have to live with her. He shrugged. It’s easier this way.

The look said it all. Victor’s true essence laid bare. Her darkest moment; His mere irritation.

He cursed at the darkness obscuring his vision and turned to face the moonlight. There was a snap as the pistol’s slide pulled back, followed by a sharp metallic ping. A gleaming brass cartridge pinwheeled into the air and tumbled out of sight.

In moments, he would fire the pistol, and she would be dead. Her brains splattered across the cracked Mexican sand and her unborn son twisting in her belly for an oxygen supply ripped away. Her final moment to act. She spotted a large rock nearby, wrapped both hands around its jagged surface, and wrenched it from the earth. She rose to her feet and hefted the rock over her head.

Victor removed the ammo clip from his pocket and popped it into the handle. He pulled the slide back to chamber a fresh round.

Maria ran towards him, heedless of the brush and thorns. Her arms wobbled under the rock’s weight, but she remained focused on her target.

He turned to face her, and his eyes opened wide. The pistol raised and fired as the rock crashed into flesh and bone.

Chapter 2

Speechless

S tory first, then more tacos.

A cloud of cigarette smoke curled under Sylvia Mata’s lips. She leaned against a kitchen cabinet with olive-colored arms folded across her flat stomach. One languid hand drooped with a burning cigarette scissored between her fingers. Morning sun filtered through the window behind her, highlighting auburn strands nestled in her raven hair. A red scarf cloaked the top of her head, and an apron wrapped around her slim waist. Gray haze glowed in the refracted sunlight. Her obsidian eyes glittered through the fog.

Caught in the middle of her morning chores, Sylvia was clutching a mop with both hands when Victor entered the house. She had met him at the door as he staggered inside, clutching an icepack to his throbbing forehead. She was as irritated at his late arrival as she was insistent to hear about last night’s events. All Victor wanted was food and rest.

Victor hunched over a table with his arms resting on either side of an empty plate. He sighed and slumped into his chair, his body aching with exhaustion. The last thing he wanted upon arriving home was to suffer an interrogation. But there would be no peace, or more tacos, until he satisfied her questions.

I took her out to the desert, like you wanted.

Far out?

Victor nodded. Only buzzards there. We walked out into the desert and… my gun jammed. Son of a bitch, he sighed, forming his hand into a pistol shape. She hit me with a rock while I was clearing the jam. He turned his face to display the black stitches over his right eye.

She grunted, unmoved by the sight. And then what?

What do you think? She ran. But she didn’t make it far.

You caught her?

Victor snorted. Half blind, I’m still faster than most.

Sylvia rolled her eyes. OK, then what? You shot her?

Eh, I didn’t have my gun. I lost it when she hit me.

Sylvia squeezed her eyelids shut and sighed.

"It was dark. She was running away. I had blood in my eyes. I didn’t have time to look. It’s OK. I still took care of her."

Sylvia pulled a drag from the cigarette and blew out a fresh cloud of smoke. So, what, you beat her death?

Victor tapped his plate. I’m hungry. When her expression remained unchanged, he added, Please.

She scrunched her lips, set her cigarette inside a plastic ashtray, and turned to face the cooktop. Minutes later, Victor was finishing his third taco.

So, she’s dead? she asked, with a fresh cigarette between her fingers. She studied him through narrowed eyes.

While he chewed, Victor had been deciding how much to tell her. It wasn’t necessary that she know all the details. They would only confuse her. He wasn’t sure he understood them either. Anyway, they didn’t matter. The result was the same. Maria Benavidez ended up dead in the Mexican desert.

"Yes. Está muerta."

Good. Let the buzzards enjoy their meal, she said, and blew another hazy cloud.

Sylvia’s appearance had changed little since the day they met as lusty teenagers. At once petite and curvy, with hips that bewitched him. More important to Victor, she retained the verve and energy of her youth. That rapturous spitfire that captured his imagination along with his heart.

But since their son’s birth, she had developed a predatory instinct, like a mother lioness sensing encroaching hyenas. When she deemed Maria a threat to her family, Sylvia didn’t hesitate to demand her death. The request surprised him. Not that killing was foreign to Victor. The desert concealed the remains of several of Victor’s problems. But this was a minor issue. A few pesos and a bus ticket out of town would have satisfied him. But Sylvia insisted. Even more so, she demanded he do it himself. To prove his continued devotion.

To keep the peace, he agreed, though anticipation made him ill. He had never killed a woman. And pregnant, to boot. Sylvia placated him with her words. That girl is a whore, sleeping with half the boys in town. But you’re the father? Please. So, he downed a few shots of tequila and set out, determined to see it done. The things men do for love.

Sylvia eyed him with a faint grin. I know what you’re thinking, she said. I live in there. She tapped the side of her head. But know this. If you kept your dick in your pants, that girl would still be alive.

She slid a row of chorizo con huevo from the frying pan into a fresh tortilla and sprinkled the insides with shredded cheese. She wrapped the taco tight, lifted it with the spatula, and placed it on Victor’s plate.

Enjoy, she said with a slight smile.

Victor polished off his breakfast in silence, grateful to be out of her crosshairs. Her hot temper was as easily roused to anger as it was to lust. But the carnal heat that birthed their relationship and sustained their marriage had dimmed after their son’s birth. Sylvia’s attentions shifted to raising their son and tending their home. His ardor never dimmed, however, and he soon sought partners elsewhere. A fact he never concealed. Why would he? Having a mistress was a customary tradition for successful men such as himself. Alas, this one got out of hand.

Who stitched you up? Sylvia pulled out a chair and sat across from Victor. She nodded at the five-inch-long row of stitches above his right eye.

Dr. Villareal.

"Hector? You went to that curandero?"

He’s an actual doctor. There’s a medical degree on his wall.

His wife’s inherent distrust of curanderos cut deep. Using