Apolo told the men who huddled among the riverside brambles, “that means the ride is close, and we’re going to run like crazy to meet El Indio.” To hurry up and wait was the hardest part. El Indio had gone to meet the levantón, which may have seemed a convincing next step to the pollos but did not always seem that way to the remaining guide. Their position could be stumbled on by a rancher or recreational horse rider. The whine of the Border Patrol quad motorbikes was sometimes within earshot, and if civilians caught a glimpse of the crossers, it was easy to assume they’d tip off the agents. During the day, that sense of apprehension was amplified by the thumping of naval helicopters running maneuvers out of Ream Field. Then, before dusk, nature took over—buzzing mosquitoes that left dime-sized welts on the skin rose out of the swamp. Worst of all was the fear that no one was coming for them. Though Apolo was new, there were rumors of migrants having to jump aboard a city bus with only the few gringo dollars their guides had given them.
