There is disease. I have heard the stories. Sunny, the beef they send is maggot-ridden. The blankets are thin. The spirit dies before the body does.
I will not take my sister's children to a cage. Then where? asked Chee, the elder. We cannot go north. The soldiers are thick as locusts. We cannot go east.
We go south, Ayanna said. She pointed toward the jagged horizon where the mountains dissolved into the harsh Mexican borderlands. South? Chee spat. That is a death march.
The water holes are dry. The Mexican army hates us as much as the Americans do. There are rumors, Luke spoke up. The women turned to him. He stepped forward, leaning on his rifle.
He felt the weight of their gaze, not as an enemy anymore, but as something strange and necessary. I heard talk in the settlements before, before I came here, Luke said. There's a valley south of the border, near the Sierra Madre, a place where the lines on the map do not matter so much. They say there are communities there, Apache, Mexican, runaway slaves, white outlaws, people who just want to be left alone. It is a long way, Sunny whispered.
300 miles, Luke said, maybe more. And every mile will be hostile. We will have to move at night. We will have to avoid the towns. We will be ghosts.
He looked at Ayanna. I can guide you through the white lands. I know the patrols. I know how the cavalry thinks. I can get you to the border.
And then? Ayanna asked. Then we survive, Luke said. Or we do not. But we do it free.
The debate raged for hours. It was a terrifying choice. To surrender was to accept a slow, humiliating death of the soul. To run was to risk a violent death of the body. Sunny looked at her son.
She looked at the canyon walls that had been their home. She looked at Ayanna, whose face was set like stone. I would rather my son die thirsty in the desert than live in chains, Sunny said softly. The decision was made. They would run.