Daggers in the Desert

By Marcus Guerra

Daggers in the Desert is a novel of adventure in the life of a simple Mexican cardboard-box collector (cartonero) and a US Border Patrol agent on the Rio Grande border of South Texas and Northern Mexico. Far from the life he had known in Georgia, the agent fights heat, drugs, coyotes (human smugglers), and himself in the dusty Laredo sector of the 1970s with a 97 percent Hispanic population.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645595014

Book preview

Acknowledgments

I am grateful to God, the giver of life, for all good things come from Him, and I am appreciative to my wife, Tere, for bringing every phase of my book to completion.

I am also thankful to every citizen of Laredo, Texas who helped bring our city out of the patrón or chieftain system to the modern and wonderful city it now is.

Chapter 1

The dry and dusty breezes sweep down upon parched expanses and tiny cracks of the land. They have marred its face for centuries—almost as long as they have stung the faces of the souls that strive to endure the elements that savagely ravage this part of the world. Winds wind through the wrinkles of land and man and bear witness to the songs and cries of life and death.

The world within the realm of the Rio Grande River of the southwest, in many ways, is different from the rest of the world, yet, in many ways it is the same. The air stirs with the mournful cry of a world that only the prepared heart can recognize. This world that unfolds is quite like many, scattered in places distant where children dance and play and weep.

All here share the same tears and laughter and fears and joys of each other. Together they partake of a conscience where minds cannot fully rest while the heart beats. For assuredly, there are enemies without, but the most fearsome are those that seek to destroy from within. When the final breath of the soul drifts into forever, it may be enough that its touch sought to relieve restless agonies of suffering mind and body. Like arteries of the body bringing life to the creature, so too the blood-colored waters of the Rio Grande bring life to the frontera or border. Putrid silty waters cut through arid rock and sand from Colorado, southeastward to the Gulf of Mexico, and are seemingly unusable, not unlike many elements of this harsh area; but the people labor to make it useful. They squeeze out the dirt and rejoice that their thirst and hunger are lessened.

The waters flow slowly. Mesquite and cactus that cling to the banks overlook unhurried stream and cloak the lands of all South Texas and Northern Mexico. The brilliant sun splashes over the narrow waters, and, occasionally, a river snake breaks up the luster as it silently and ominously slithers looking for prey. From higher bluffs of the Rio Bravo, the black mountains of Mexico can be seen in the distance and on the horizon. Like the river, the mountains are silent. From far away, they seem gentle yet indestructible. They give permanence to the land. Requiring neither water nor air nor love, they will remain forever, long after the blood of river and creature has evaporated from the dust.

Here in the midst of trees, thorns, and muddy waters are spread two towns that showcase two countries as they rest side by side. On the United States side of the river is Laredo in South Texas. On the Mexican side is Nuevo Laredo. In both cities, first and third world scenarios contrast. Spanish language conveys business and dreams of the people. Spanish, Mexican, Anglo, and indigenous cultures converge to form a unique atmosphere.

Tortuous heat of summer has given this unforgiving area the distinction of being the frequent hot spots of two countries. Eighteen inches of annual rain that perk up shrub brush and grasses of area ranches can quickly be negated by the hellish 110-degree heat that scorches plains and emanates upward, burning the skies. In days, vibrant green tierra can change to yellow and then brown land. Likewise browns that tinge dry dead plains are manifest too upon the sweaty skin of people who trod the poor ground and hope for cool evenings and heavy dews to refresh both land and spirit.

As early summer dawn patiently illuminates darkness, the steady gree-gree-grees of nocturnal crickets give way to sharp shrill whistling of a million cicadas rattling thickets, and reverberating uncontestedly, throughout the long summer. Mesquite and huisache trees become alive with sound of the hardy insect as eastern skies become alive with color. Slowly, diamond-lit black velvet turns pink and bursts into orange-red flames. Adding softness and draping skies like curtains, clouds vaporize hues that open to the short-lived performance of magnificent color. For a while, cooler breezes of morning give promise that gentle peace might rule in the homes of inhabitants of this region.

The world awakens while the air rises with the daily revival of sweet odors of the streets. Coffee, spicy chorizo or sausage, bacon, fried eggs with refried beans, and flour tortillas sift through fumes of poorly-refined Mexican gasoline emitted through corroded mufflers of half-dead rust-laden cars and trucks. Dogs, cats, and possums retreat under rotted wooden steps to escape the ensuing madness of morning and the ever-increasing heat, whose waves echo from dusty streets to brick and adobe walls, creating, by early afternoon, a grand consuming oven.

After a season in this land, the individual becomes aware that there is music everywhere. It can be subtle, or even pronounced, but its rhythms never die. Everything is part of the unending song. Winds stroke strings of bare branches and shake waxen leaves in harmony. Howling eerily, they rush through steep mountain passes, or rusted tin of shacks, formed to keep out winter chills or rare driving rains. Lonely cries of the unseen coyote melt into night’s bosom that can never comfort or cloak agonized mourning of mother and child. Mariachi trumpets, violins, guitars, and tongues permeate sullen nocturnal shadows, eventually harmonizing with the whispers of the stars and releasing spirits that are swept away into the soft fabric of kindred spirits elsewhere.

Indeed there are many threads that blend together to create the fabric of which the unseen artist blends his colors to fashion his painting of the human soul. Visible evidence of the brush can be seen on the faces of those hungry for food and thirsty for water and in the eyes of those starving for fellowship of compassion. The invisible manifestation of the artist is perhaps the most important. It is within these strokes that patience and understanding are wrought and made to pulsate within the breast. Ironically it is the unseen which creates the masterpiece that can never fade.

Upon this cloth emerges the cartonero or collector of cardboard boxes. Like the ant whose short life is spent solely to retrieve seemingly useless burdens, the cartonero’s life is spent hauling loads of unwanted cardboard boxes and cartons in his three-wheeled cart. The cartonero slowly pedals his makeshift vehicle to department stores, restaurants, markets, and malls to load discarded containers of thousands of products. Much like the innate instincts of the ant that prods its members to methodically disassemble a plant to be carried away, the cartonero patiently, and uniformly, reduces the six-sided boxes to flat sheets that are stacked neatly in his cart. Once loaded, he pushes or pedals his enlarged tricycle to search for more riches elsewhere.

By many people’s standards, the rewards are miniscule compared to efforts to obtain them. Working from black of morning to black of night, the cartonero labors to receive five cents per pound for his load. On a good day, he can collect over five hundred pounds. Twenty-five dollars for such a load is regarded as a rich man’s wages in comparison to most of his Mexican brethren who labor and those who labor to find much needed work. The cartonero collects his treasure from the much-affluent United States side of the river. Crawling at a cautious pace, he magnetically hugs sides and curbs of streets and makes his way over the traffic-laden International Bridge. Winding through the shadows, he relentlessly pursues his destination—the cardboard recycling plant—obtains his daily wage, turns his empty cart homeward, and retires from the day.

Chapter 2

Santos Diaz slowly rode his cart through the Santa Cruz barrio in Nuevo Laredo. Such neighborhoods contain most of this impoverished city’s 500,000-population. Multitudes of shacks serve as dwellings and resemble playhouses that children assemble in their backyards. Here these serve as serious homes for poor Mexicans. Santos’s cart trod over loose rocks in tiny gulleys of trash-littered roads. Lively accordion polka music blared through open doors. In some places, malicious stenches of fecal matter from nearby outhouses fouled the air while in others, freshly-made corn tortillas wafted up a satisfying aroma.

Children were everywhere. A group of them sat upon rough cinder blocks, gazing into the street at others who played with discarded items. Some boys kicked around an empty plastic milk carton which was their soccer ball, and another group used a bald plastic faded doll’s head as a baseball, knocked around with a tree branch. Rocks were scattered around central stacks made to be bases for the games. Frazzled clothes and rags tied end-to-end made an ample, if somewhat cumbersome, jump rope for several laughing girls. Junked cars and trucks made nice hideouts for the many children who scrambled about them playing tag and hide-and-go-seek games. Uniformed in dark brown skin, darker matted hair, and faded clothes, the children played contentedly, running around and skipping on their deeply-calloused feet. Shouts of encouragement blended with laughter and rhythmic chantings. The squalor of the slum had little impact upon the children’s recreation as the heavy concerns of their parents were in galaxies far removed from play.

As conjunto ensemble music pounded the air, men tinkered with their tired vehicles. Cats and dogs lay sprawled on chalky dust, coexisting rather peacefully. Pecking the earth for morsels of food, chickens, with their shiny orange and black plumage, lent their beats to evening rhythms. Occasionally a bored dog chased a squawking hen (to perch at higher elevations), to clarify his lordship of yard and street, and breaking monotony of a relatively undisturbed life.

The usual drama of dusk witnessed Santos, the tired cartonero, gently easing his cart onto the bare front yard of his home in the barrio. His jacale or shack was nothing more than a collection of refuse and junk that he pieced together in much the same way a bird builds a nest. A typical dwelling in the barrio consisted of rusted tin, cardboard, misshapen bricks, and bits of lumber held together with used nails, rope, and cheap cement.

Santos’s jacale was identical to all the shacks of poorer communities except for distribution of materials thrown together. His little hut was also stronger and neater than most. As he pushed a brick with his foot behind a tire of his cart to secure it, he gazed over the huts of his neighbors. The last glow of evening faded away, leaving jagged silhouettes against the sky. He felt that even though the shacks were held together rather weakly, the endurance of their inhabitants was much stronger.

Santos was a gentle humble man. Growing up as the eldest in a home of three brothers and five sisters, he developed refined qualities that, for many, only a lifetime can carve into steadfast character. Early in life, he learned that there was no place for a self-centered disposition. Having had to contribute all his energies toward survival of family, he had no desire to be materialistic or selfish.

His father was quiet and very solemn and spent most of his time trying to earn pesos to support his wife and children. His mother, however, was a constant flurry of action as her days were consumed with talking, gossiping, disciplining, scurrying about household chores and singing.

The cartonero always had someone to share life with, and work was easier when there were others working alongside. His parents made him feel strong yet cautioned him that having humility was a person’s real strength. His father and brothers were his mirror of masculinity. The hurt he would cause his mother and his sisters, due to his occasional callousness, could be seen in their eyes. Over time, Santos had learned to change a sad, troubled heart into a joyful, peaceful one.

As Santos lumbered into his small warm hut, his figure filled the room. He was only of medium height, but his strong arms and shoulders, wrought by years of pushing and pedaling a heavy cart coupled with his heavy round panza or belly, gave him the appearance of a stocky bear. Containing streaks of white, his deep-black curly hair accompanied his heavily-lined forehead and testified that he was nearing forty. His enormous rough hands were tools developed by his years of daily strenuous work.

Strangely, and contrary to most of the Hispanic populace, Santos possessed a dark-reddish-colored face. For this reason, he was known as El Cara Roja. His brilliant broad smile could be seen from a distance as his milky-white teeth contrasted sharply with his red skin. Among those who knew him, few would doubt his identity from afar as he journeyed through both Laredos.

Santos loved coming home. Often throughout his day, he would envision his entrance into his house where his wife, Teresa, always welcomed him with a soft hug while she studied his eyes to ensure him of her love. Wearily plodding through heavy traffic, he could feel her soft brown cheeks next to his as her dark flowing hair covered his eyes. He could smell her intoxicating perfumes of roses and gardenias. By afternoon, his huge stomach painfully reminded him of the feast he would encounter at home. He relished smells of frijoles borrachos (drunken beans), grilled elotes (corn), chile, and Teresa’s special corn tortillas. When there were extra pesos in pocket, special bits of spicy fajita (skirt steak) or chicken were gently encased in flour tortillas, creating savory tacos whose magic the cartonero mentally entertained by day’s end.

Santos was met at the door by Teresa. He hugged her extra tightly.

Careful. She smiled. You know there is a little Santos in me.

Little? You mean big! he exclaimed. Look at you. You are a woman and a half. Anyway there could be a little Teresita in you.

"Or cuates, twins, she said as she clutched the great hands that caressed her protruding stomach. Oh, I am so excited!"

Her smile lit up the big man’s heart. He had sworn there was none more lovely anywhere on earth. Her large eyes conveyed her emotion, and Santos wondered if she knew how beautiful she was. He wondered too how he deserved such a woman.

"If it is a niña with your eyes, I will have to stop working in a few years so I can guard her from the charms of the young men," Santos said as he held her tightly.

Teresa purred, Umm…flattery will get you nothing but the best.

What flattery? I speak the truth. When I saw those big gentle deer eyes of yours, my heart was gone forever—not to mention your pretty smile. I could not eat for days. You made me weak. It is something that I did not fall off the bridge into the river.

You certainly eat now, she teased, patting his stomach. And I pity the rail of the bridge and the fish below if you were to fall off now.

You know how well food and I get along. Besides I need to keep up my strength. It is hard work to get and haul more boxes to get ready for another angel. Anyway your cooking made me like this. It is one of the few pleasures there is. Santos paused after defending himself.

Teresa’s eyes caught his. She loved to pique his defensiveness when his weight was concerned. It just seemed there was nothing that Santos could do to curb his great appetite.

Anyway food is not my only reward in life, he affirmed. "I am rich. I have health, wheels, a home, a wonderful woman, and soon, a family. Gracias a Jesucristo."

And I have you. This time, she embraced Santos. And I want to keep you happy. Come sit down and have some supper.

Santos washed his hands in a round plastic bucket. A small trickling of water came from the faucet that was made for a garden hose. After splashing water on his face, he wrung his hands, grabbed a small ragged towel from a chair, and dried himself.

The room was small and served as a kitchen, dining room, and bedroom. The floor was the same dirt ground that led into the tiny front yard. Appliances included a portable radio, a few stacked bricks used for a wood-burning stove, and a single light bulb that hung from the center of the tin roof on a long cord. A small three-bladed fan stirred the summer air, providing some relief as it blew over sweat-soaked skin.

Teresa made the room cozy. Red cloth hung from windows as curtains. The Diaz’s wedding picture hung above the bed. An enlarged picture from a simple black-and-white photo, it portrayed intense love that the two had readily given twenty years earlier when their eyes pierced each other’s soul.

A few pictures of relatives stood on a large toilet paper box. A simple bed of varnished pine lumber and plywood and a rusted folding chair were the other pieces of furniture. A miniature altar with a painting of the holy family rested in the corner upon an apple crate guarded by two bright-red candle jars. Beneath this humble display was placed a dark-purple blanket. Teresa felt proud that warm blanket served as the flooring of the altar. It was given as a wedding gift for icy nights, but she felt its purpose was better used to brighten God’s special place. An old gardenia in an earthen vase still gave a pungent sweet smell as it leaned over the side. Further complementing the altar, pink artificial flowers lay scattered around the cloth.

Looking down upon the simple hut, a sturdy crucifix hung above the door. Made from mesquite wood, a carved bloodied Jesus rested on it. His bowed head was laden with thorns from which crimson stains flowed. Half of one leg was gone, but its absence did not lessen the effect the cross had on Teresa and Santos. In difficult times, Teresa would behold the cross and think of the man who was cruelly punished in his innocence. It was the last object the cartonero saw as he set foot through his door in the morning. It also encouraged him during the day as he meditated on it. He liked to think it protected Teresa and his home while he was gone.

Here you are. Just pretend it is a steak, Teresa said as she placed the rice, beans, and tortillas before her husband.

Santos prayed over the meal and praised his wife, saying, I never know how you can get so much out of so little. You get meager offerings from dust and make jewels from them.

Oh, you are just hungry. That is the best spice you know, and God made a blessed marriage between hunger and tongue.

Santos savored each mouthful of the tender and juicy feast. Each forkful was accompanied with a bite of yellow rolled tortilla that his teeth tore from his round fist. Teresa watched pleasingly as his right cheek balled up with food. She knew his meals were patiently waited for and were greatly appreciated. Every bite was quickly devoured.

I have a surprise for you, my Santos. Teresa smiled glowingly.

Santos looked up, and his eyes widened with elation as she placed a dripping can of cold beer before him.

I had it frozen at the store so it could be cold for you now. I hope you like it.

The man’s hand clutched the icy can. He placed the beer to his mouth and released its cold clear contents down his throat. The moisture was taken in like the dry grounds of Northern Mexico, absorbing the life-giving freshness of the infrequent summer storms.

Ahhhh. Santos breathed heavily. He shook his head as he contemplated how his wife was always doing little things that meant so much. He pulled her to himself and said, "No man on earth could have a woman as caring as you. Your love makes my life mean something. It heals my blistered feet and softens my hardened hands. Gracias mi amor."

Teresa ran her fingers through her husband’s curls, and Santos blushed before his woman. She was his gift. Before they met, her future was uncertain, but he knew her days could have been better spent than living as the wife of a cartonero in a fiery filthy slum. Santos hid his head in her bosom as she sat on his knee.

The two caressed each other, and then Teresa arose to kneel in front of the altar. She lit the two candles and took hold of Santos’ hand. She prayed.

Holy Jesus, You can see our hearts. Help us to see Yours. Thank You for the little one You have given us. Only You know why it was until now that You have put this child in our care. We thank You for all things.

The two meditated quietly before the altar. Then in unison, they chanted the prayer of the Our Father. Closing with a solemn Amen, they respectfully gestured the sign of the cross over their chests. Santos then helped Teresa to her feet. Both prepared for sleep.

The big man sponged himself clean from a pail of water and washed his hair. He placed his heavy dirty pants and salty shirt under the chair that held his next day’s wear. He always had a clean fresh set for the following day.

While Santos was at work, his wife labored dutifully at hers, prepared meals and clothes, and kept the shack clean. She managed the meager budget well on life’s necessities. Her spare hours were spent helping her neighbor’s lives to be more comfortable as she ran errands for them, cooked, cleaned, and cared for children. In turn, the people she helped payed her with what they could afford.

I rocked little Juanito to sleep today, she said as Santos slid into bed beside her.

He tried to fight sleep as he went back and forth, but his eyes fell closed and peace surrounded him. I thought of our own little child that I would put to sleep. Just think, Santos, we are going to be a family.

The time is near, sighed Santos. I did not think we would ever have our own. It is a good feeling.

I feel him moving even now as we speak. See, Santos, feel him move! Teresa exclaimed.

The light within the shack disappeared as well as night’s anthems from neighbor’s radios. After an eerie moment, an earthshaking clap of thunder rattled the wall of the room. Teresa’s baby jumped as if startled by it.

Santos, who had his hand on Teresa’s stomach, calmly spoke to his frightened woman, The baby jumps, but it is safe inside of you. You are safe in my arms too. He wrapped his great arms around Teresa and silence ruled. Large drops of rain began to pelt upon the tin roof.

Santos! a terrified Teresa called out.

Alarmed, Santos beckoned. "What is it, mi amor?"

The rain! It is going to destroy the shrine! It is not finished. I have to cover it.

"No tengas cuidado, Teresita, do not worry. God sends the rain, He can take care of it Himself."

Teresa breathed nervously. No, I must go now. It is my way to thank Him for our child. I have to go.

Santos protested, I will cover it, you stay here.

No, only I can, she said firmly and then lifted the cover to slide from the bed.

The rain began to pound harder. Peering out the window, she could see the white cement cross flashing brightly in unison with the lightning that exploded over the heavens. Red paint from the thorns of Christ was streaming down to the base of the cross.

I must hurry, she thought as she ran toward a large plastic trash bag held down by rocks.

Santos thrust open the door. Teresita! Teresita! His cry was drowned by thunder.

Teresa never covered the shrine. Her feet had become ensnared in the plastic bag as she ran. A pursuing Santos lunged to catch her, but he was too late. Teresa lay on her side curled up, holding her stomach. Heavy sheets of rain poured over her.

The cover…get the cover, she begged, wincing in pain.

Lightning flashed over her contorted face. Santos knelt to cover her with the bag.

Forget me. Please, she cried, cover the baby…the baby’s coming! The baby’s coming!

Heaving out great gasps of air and screaming deliriously, Teresa instinctively began to force her body to push the baby outward. In agonizing pain, and with stomach muscles contracting in convulsic spasms, Teresa dug her fingers into the mud.

"Angel! Mi angel! Santos shrieked in horror and disbelief. Do not leave me, mi amor, mi angel! O Cristo! You cannot leave me!"

The big man hunched over Teresa, sobbing uncontrollably while shielding her face from the storm as her head lay in his trembling hands. Winds whipped around rains, swirled debris and thrashed them to the ground. Santos lifted his wife’s body from the mud in front of the little shrine. A rose that she