Just for the Birds Page 5

  “We’ll look less suspicious. What with helmets and all, if we get spotted after we pass San Javier, no one’ll be able to tell who we are, male or female.”

  I gave Craig a once-over and brayed. “Yeah, the Baja abounds in six-foot-four, black women on quads. Nothin’ to see there.”

  We decided on helmets with facemasks.

  As we suspected—and counted on—the senior docs were not at all interested in joining us for a desert quad jaunt. I knew the feeling. It was about the last thing I wanted to do, right behind the mule train ride up a mountain. And back down.

  We arranged a day tour of Loreto and Mission San Javier for the parents, and the rest of us were ready to take off at oh-dark-thirty for the nine-mile drive into Loreto.

  The first stretch of mountainous, curvy road to Mission San Javier was paved, and gave me a chance to get used to my scary four-wheeled machine. After all, I didn’t know squat about boats until I bought Raymond Johnson, and the quad had something my boat didn’t—brakes. So, by the time we hit dirt, I was feeling more confident.

  Because I am allergic to dust, Roger and I took the lead, with Jan and Craig dropping back to avoid our fallout which, luckily, an early morning breeze whisked away quickly. I rode slightly upwind of Roger, taking it slow over the surprisingly good road. Someone was grading it, and it was in the best condition we’d ever seen. Amazing what a little cartel money can do when smugglers need to move their product quickly.

  When we turned off the main road, I was thankful the last few kilometers to the mule corral were not as bad as I’d feared. However, by the time we reached the tree-shaded, almost bucolic spread, I realized how tensed up I’d been on the quad. My shoulders and arms ached, my ears rang from the motor noise, and I was almost looking forward to ditching the machine for a nice, quiet, mule. Almost.

  Jan’s eyes widened when we met the mules kinner. We’d both expected a wizened old cowboy who smelled like his mules.

  The tall, fortyish and handsome man dressed in perfectly fitting jeans, slightly scuffed but good quality boots, and a Stetson, stuck out his hand. “Welcome to Camp Muleshoe. I’m Drew Campanella, your host for the day.”

  Jan tittered like a teen. “I get it, Campanella…Camp. Very clever. You’re American?”

  I mentally rolled my eyes. Gawd, she’s easy. But I had to admit, he was a hunk. Blue eyes in a tanned face, blondish hair from what I could see from the long fringe on his neck. Determined not to seem like I was fazed by his movie star looks, I said, all business-like, “Hetta Coffey here. Nice to meet you, Drew. Great place. An oasis in the middle of desolation. You must have a good well.”

  “I do, and I have an elaborate water catchment system for the rainy season. The main house has been here since the eighteen hundreds, but I did some improvements.”

  My immediate thought was, trust-fund baby. The Baja is full of them. Nodding my head toward the well-maintained barn and corral, I asked, “Which one is mine?”

  Drew pointed to the largest mule in the pen. The brute looked…mulish. When I said as much, Jan retorted, “It takes one to tell one. Let me count the ways. As in, obstinate, stubborn, pigheaded, recalcitrant, intransigent, unyielding, inflexible, and bullheaded. Sound like anyone we know, guys?”

  “How long have you been harboring that Thesaurus hack to insult me with, Miz Jan?”

  “Some time now, Chica. It was a certainty the opportunity would arise.”

  “You gotta get a life up there at that whale camp. You have way too much time on your hands in between flipping tortillas.”

  “Hey, you two, let’s get going, okay?” Craig said.

  I sized up my ride. Huge. And cross-eyed. I swear when he saw me he rolled his eyes in opposite directions, which showed a lot of white. White-eye on a horse ain’t a good sign, but our transportador de mulas, assured me Hedley was a grand mount, just a little pie-eyed.

  Hedley’s broad back at first seemed like a plus, but my inner thighs soon screamed that riding in a constant plié position is far from ideal.

  Mule skinner Drew led us out of camp, onto a well-traveled path toward a steep upgrade, which I glared at with dread. To take my mind off my already blazing inner thighs, and quite frankly, some of my more delicate bits, I asked, “Say, Roger, when you told us about this foray, you used the words ‘envelop them from the rear flank.’ Does envelop mean attack? Ride down for vengeance like Cochise did from his mountain stronghold to rob and pillage settlers and soldiers?”

  I’d visited Cochise’s stronghold in the Chiricahua Mountains of Arizona, and it was obvious that the Indian leader could spot anyone for miles around from his high spot.

  Jan laughed from atop her svelte mule. “Cochise rode mules? Sounds like a Mel Brooks movie.” I noticed her thighs comfortably hugged her skinny-assed mule, and her elongated stirrups kept her legs only slightly bent. I had stirrup envy.

  “Nah,” I said, “he rode mustangs. Right Roger?

  Roger nodded.

  “But speaking of Mel Brooks? Hello, my critter is named Hedley. What do you bet his last name is Lamarr?”

  This prompted a rash of Blazing Saddles quotes.

  “Hey, Craig, ‘they said you was hung’.”

  Craig countered, “‘And they was right.’”

  Roger said, in a high voice, “ ‘Oh, it's twue. It's twue. It's twue, it's twue’!”

  We all laughed, then our guide warned us, “The sound. It carries a long way up here.”

  “Yes, Kemosabe,” I whispered.

  Roger lowered his own voice. “As for Cochise, I have a story to tell.”

  “We’re all ears, right Hedley?” I reached forward and fondled my mule’s fuzzy ear, and he groaned with pleasure. I think. I braced myself for an odiferous mule fart, just in case.

  “Ya see, old Cochise had hisself a deal with the US government to protect the stage coach line, but there was a major foul-up when a new guy with no Indian experience ended up holding him responsible for a raid on a ranch, and the kidnapping of the rancher’s twelve-year-old son.”

  “Lemme guess. He didn’t do it?” Jan said.

  “Nope, it was another band of Apaches, but that Lt. Bascom didn’t know one Indian from ‘tother, so they arrested Cochise. He escaped by cutting a hole in the back of a tent, then Bascom retaliated by taking some of his relatives, then Cochise took hostages, and both sides ended up killin’ their captives.”

  “That’d have a way of souring their deal,” Craig said.

  “Big time. Ended up in an eleven-year war with estimates as high as five-thousand killed. That might be an exaggerated number, but it was still a big mess.”

  “And,” I asked, “wasn’t there a bunch of gold involved somehow?”

  Jan grinned. “Gold is Hetta’s favorite subject.”

  I shrugged, “And why not?”

  Craig chuckled. “Roger’s spent years searching every cave, crook, and cranny in Cochise County looking for that stash. We’ll show you the maps he made when you come to Arizona.”

  Jan narrowed her eyes at me. “Hetta, you’ve gone as pie-eyed as your mule. Forget about the gold.”

  Jan’s warning to give up on the idea of a gold hunt in Arizona fell on deaf ears, for at least dreams of riches distracted me somewhat from my searing thigh muscles. I’d resorted to balancing cross-legged in the saddle to relieve my overstretched thighs.

  Our guide rode forward, held up his arm, and whistled. Hedley heard the signal, came to an abrupt halt, and I ended up hanging sideways on my mount. Only my death grip on the saddle horn kept me from falling on my head.

  I’d managed to swing both legs onto terra firma in what I considered a rather elegant save when Roger said, “Dismount.”

  “Hetta already beat us to it,” Jan said dryly.

  We gathered our backpacks, cameras, canteens, and binoculars and set off on foot. Not much of a hiker, I nevertheless reveled in being on my own two feet and stretching my legs. At least for about five minutes, when I panted, “How�
��far…do we have to go?”

  “Less than a kilometer; maybe nine hundred meters,” Drew told us.

  I looked up—way up—and gasped, “Piece of cake,” but I wanted my mule back.

  Chapter Eight

  AFTER AN ALMOST vertical climb, I brought up the rear to find my friends already lying on the edge of a drop-off, checking out the flatland below. When I finally caught a breath, I joined them and immediately recognized the farmhouse and bird enclosure below, but something was off. It took me a moment to realize what. Only native bird sounds surrounded us. No exotic squawks.

  “About time you dragged yourself up here,” Jan whispered.

  “Bite me,” I wheezed.

  “I’m cutting excess fat from my diet. You see what I see?” she asked.

  “I know what I hear. Nada.”

  She nodded and handed me her binoculars. “Check out the farmhouse.”

  I adjusted the Bushnells to my vision—miffed she could see better than me—and zeroed in on two guys in hoodies with what looked to be automatic weapons slung over their shoulders. They were chatting and smoking. I trained on the bird enclosure; there were a few birds in it, but they looked to be natives that habitually sneaked in for a free meal. They were quietly huddled together against the cool morning.

  “Humberto always covers part of the aviary so the birds can shelter from rain, cold and sun. His canvas is nothing but tatters now. I—”

  “Shhhh,” Roger said. “I hear something. Sounds like a truck.”

  Sure enough, a bright yellow truck resembling a Mexican roach coach crested a small rise in the road, sounded the well-known ballad, “La Cucaracha,” on his horn, then rumbled through the gate when the armed men opened it. It stopped briefly at the main house, then followed the guards to the aviary.

  Although the truck’s gaily painted sides boasted the best tacos in all of Mexico, it had been modified. Unlike a typical street diner, the rear had a roll-up canvas. Once it was open, the driver began lugging boxes inside the bird enclosure through a man door. Okay, person door. Sheesh.

  The few birds already inside flew around nervously, one actually escaping right over the heads of the men. “You go, bird,” I whispered under my breath.

  Jan gave me a double thumbs-up.

  It took a good twenty minutes to get all the cardboard boxes inside the enclosure and shut the door. The man doing all the work then began unsealing his cargo, revealing fruit of all kinds: mangos, papaya, melons, and pineapple. When about half the boxes were open, he started removing the tops of the others.

  “¡Pendejos!” Roger spat under his breath.

  I adjusted my binocular lenses, as we all did, and watched a large, bedraggled parrot slowly pull himself out by his beak. As he did so, his weight tipped the box, and three more birds staggered out into the morning light.

  Craig whistled. “Holy crap! Those are hyacinth macaws! They retail in the US for thousands of dollars.” He whipped out our best video camera and recorded the disturbing scene as at least two hundred brilliantly colored exotic birds—blinking and panting while staggering in their pigeon-toed manner—succeeded in leaving their box-prisons. Only one box remained still, and I watched it until it finally began to jiggle. I breathed a sigh of relief that something was still alive in there.

  We gave each other updates; I was zeroed in on the confused, loose birds, as one by one, they stumbled toward a large water trough which, thank God, someone had filled. So far, the piles of fruit were only of interest to the indigenous birds. Swallows, orioles, and doves that had sneaked in for a fast meal were now trapped but got their reward of fruit.

  I sighed. “At least now they all have food and water.”

  “Yabbut,” Jan said, “only one big blue macaw is nibbling on the fruit. The rest are still dazed, but at least they’re drinking water like Hetta guzzles beer.”

  I nudged her in the ribs. “That’s the ultimate pot calling the kettle black.”

  We high-fived.

  Roger, who was too engrossed with the scene below to appreciate our juvenile antics, growled. “Those a-holes’ll get ‘em fed, rested up and ready to move again, so’s to get the best bang for their buck up north.”

  Craig nodded and let loose a couple of expletives, himself. “Then they get them across any way they can. Birds are drugged, covered in cooking oil, stuffed in pipes or crammed into empty plastic water bottles, one of which is what I suspect happened to Trouble. I read somewhere customs arrested a guy at some airport with six of the poor birds strapped to his legs. These guys down there? Looks like the fruit was in the back of the truck to hide the real cargo through any Mexican military inspection posts.”

  Our guide, Drew, who had been fairly quiet up until now added, “And there were, of course, pesos exchanging hands. The military here, even the officers, don’t make much money. If they work with the cartels while in servicio, they’ll be rewarded well.”

  I’d heard the cartels were recruiting trained soldiers into their ranks, offering amounts beyond most Mexicans’ dreams. My binocs were trained on the one box that so far remained intact when a head popped up; a bird struggled out and toppled onto the ground, followed by six more. Even I could identify this flock, as a friend of mine has owned one for many years. I pointed to them. “Yellow-headed Amazons.”

  Roger swung his binoculars and watched the birds waddle in circles. “Those bastards! Double yellows are on the endangered species list. Worse than that, even; they’re facing extinction. Poor things have been dosed with something to keep them silent and immobile. Most likely cheap tequila or aguardiente.”

  “Ick,” I said, remembering when I tasted the vile booze. “That stuff comes in gallon jugs. Aguardiente is the white lightning of Mexico. You can both drink it and use it for lantern fuel.”

  Roger looked grim. “The smugglers force it down their throats, then hold their beaks until they swallow. Poor little guys are still drunk. They’re lucky to still be breathing.”

  “So that’s how they get them across the border?” I asked, trying to envision a truckload of squawking birds crossing through the US entry in California. I’d sat in that line for up to three hours a few times.

  “Yep. They knock them out to keep them quiet. No telling how far these birds have traveled, and a load of noisy, illegal, birds isn’t something you want to draw attention to. I wonder how many dead ones are still in those boxes.”

  My stomach did a turn, then bottomed out when one of the gunmen suddenly stopped and stared intently in our direction. “Crap!”

  Drew saw him, as well. “Fast! Cover your cameras and binoculars. The sun is reflecting off of them this time of day. Give it a few minutes and we’ll be good again.”

  We did as we were told, but I wondered if he had been up here recently, and if he saw anything. However, in Mexico it is never a good idea to ask too many questions when you require someone’s help. I showed him a small pair of plastic binoculars my dad gave me. Not very strong, but okay. They were solid black with no metal to reflect light. I showed them to Drew and he nodded but indicated that I not point them into the sunlight.

  Very slowly, from behind a boulder, I sneaked a peek. The man below still stared up in our direction, probably trying to decide if he’d actually seen a flash of light or heard something. After a minute or so—I didn’t know I could hold my breath that long—he shouldered his weapon and sauntered toward the house. “He’s lost interest,” I reported.

  “Okay, rangers, pack up and let’s get ready to ride,” Roger said, twirling his index finger. “We’ve seen enough of this crap.”

  “We’re just gonna leave those poor birds like this?” Jan protested.

  “Miz Jan, what do you want us to do? They have automatic weapons.”

  “Yabbut, Hetta, at least you have a—”

  I jabbed her in the side with my little binoculars to silence her before she blurted out that I was packing.

  She yelped in protest and Roger, misunderstanding her outburst
, patted her shoulder. “They’ll be fine for now. Those bastards have to get the birds a whole lot healthier before they ship them out again. Not that they care about the birds. But dead birds are worthless. Anyhow, there’s nothing we can do right this minute unless you want to ride in like the Charge of the Light Brigade and get our asses shot off. When we return, things’ll be a lot more even.”

  Craig agreed. “It’ll take at least a week to ten days to get those poor birds back in any shape for another trip. Not all of them are as resilient as Trouble. Keep your fingers crossed we don’t get a cold snap before we can rescue them. They’re from the tropics, and most will die without a warm shelter. We can only hope those idiots down there know that. After all, they can’t sell a sick or dead bird.”

  Jan and I reluctantly assented to leave, and basically butt-slid back down the cliff to our mules. It took me two tries and every expletive I knew in at least three languages before I finally launched my leg far enough across that fat-backed beast and hefted myself into the saddle.

  I was not amused, but Jan sure was.

  During the ride down the mountain, I was once again grateful for Hedley’s surefootedness. Drew, who took pity on me and tied a double folded thick blanket across my saddle, led the way down at a slow pace, and that buffer he’d placed between my rear and the leather, to ease what my British riding friends called chuff chaff. That gave me a chance to relax a little and enjoy the ride. Unfortunately, once we hit flat land our mounts picked up the pace.

  Suffice it to say that a mule in a hurry to get back to ye olde ramada has more bounce to the ounce.

  Chapter Nine

  AS IF ATV and mule riding hadn’t put a serious enough hitch in my gitalong, I was so worried about Trouble that my stomach was in an uproar. I pestered my dog-and-parrot sitter, Karen, for updates, even though Craig assured me his being caged and alone for a short time would be therapeutic and gave him quiet time to heal. However, after witnessing the ordeal he probably went through, I couldn’t help but fret. A mental picture of him drugged and stuffed into a water bottle set my teeth on edge. Someone was going to pay dearly for this.