Wounded

The blood trail had gone sparse. A few dribbles here, a single drop ten yards further, then misty droplets on a boulder. It’s been an hour since I let the arrow fly. Looking at the blood, the darker color, the lack of bubbles, had me thinking I’d hit liver. Fuck me. I knew had to find the buck before dark, or the brewing storm would start dumping snow or sleet on me and I’d be fucked.

As I hiked on through a small arroyo dotted with scrub pine, the occasional cottonwood, and numerous starkly beautiful manzanilla trees, I knew my prospects of finding the wounded animal were fading with the light. But the thought of leaving the deer suffering was enough to keep me going. I worked through the brush toward the southern foothills rimming the BLM land and the U.S./Mexico border.

I’d been hunting this border region since I was a kid. My old man had started taking me out here back in the ‘70s. Things had changed over the decades. This starkly beautiful area had always been a transitional region between the alpine zone of the mountains and the high desert, the haves on the U.S. side and the have-nots coming north from Mexico looking for a better life. But now the area was the new wild west, a violent corridor for dope smugglers, human traffickers, as well as the illegal immigrants that had always passed through. That danger and SoCal’s dying hunting tradition meant I was one of the few people still hunting out here.

##

Around 3:45 p.m., wet, cotton-ball-sized snowflakes began to sting my face. I was dressed for it, but only if I kept moving. If I ended up having to sleep out here it was going to be a long, miserable night.

I finally lost the spoor in a small slot canyon. I marked the spot with a piece of orange paracord tied to a manzanilla branch and decided to head back to the truck. The cold will keep the meat overnight…if he dies. I’d come back in the morning. I reckoned it was 50/50 that I was fucked and would never find the deer. The thought of it dying slowly hung heavy on me as I cut across the arroyo toward my truck. It’d be totally dark by the time I covered the two or so miles.

Then I saw her.

“What the fuck?” I said aloud.

She wasn’t moving. I walked closer, my mind racing trying to process why there was a woman on the ground out here in the middle of nowhere. Then I remembered where I was…Illegal immigrant? Hiker? Whoever she was, she looked dead. Fuck…Fuck…

I stopped a few yards away from her, trying to calm myself. Knowing the potential of bad shit happening was the price of hunting the border region. I scanned the surrounding brush, worried the woman might be a ruse, part of some ambush. I nocked an arrow from my quiver, wishing I hadn’t left my .38 snubby locked in my truck. I inched forward and looked at her in the fading light. She had mid-length black hair spilling onto a dirty, trail-worn green hoody. Her jeans were caked in mud. I noticed she was missing a shoe. A small blue backpack laid a couple feet from her.

“Hello? Are you ok? I asked.

Nothing.

I approached slowly then knelt next to her. I was about to check for a pulse when she groaned, rolled onto her back.

“Fucking hell!”

I popped back to my feet.

She croaked, “Agua.”

“Oh shit…thank God…you’re alive,” I said.

I set down my bow, took off my pack and dug out my water bottle. I helped her sit up. She was shivering. I figured she was in her late twenties.

“Are you hurt?” I asked.

She shook her head. I held out the water bottle. Too weak to hold it herself, I held it to her mouth. She took a gulp and started coughing.

“Slow. Slowly…Do you speak English?” I asked.

She nodded. I fed her another sip from the bottle. We repeated this a few times before she took the bottle herself. My initial relief that she was alive morphed into anxiety. Now what?

I’d been raised by my old man that when in the wilds, be it land or sea, if someone was in trouble it was your moral obligation to help…but getting involved in something illegal and possibly dangerous gave me pause. I’d also been taught to follow the law—this woman had obviously crossed illegally. What would the old man have done in this situation? Give her water and food and leave her? My own views on immigration were half-baked. I knew folks coming across from Mexico were the backbone of SoCal’s economy. Hell, most of them made money doing shit nobody else would do. Still, helping them in the current anti-immigration environment was a risk, and they had broken the law getting here. Then there were the smugglers and cartels and my lost deer to consider. Fuck. Sometimes the right thing isn’t the easy or smart thing.

I pulled the emergency bivy from my pack and wrapped it around her shoulders. I helped her to her feet. She took a few wobbly steps, stopped and groaned. Shit. I guided her over to a small cottonwood tree a few yards away and helped her sit down with her back against the trunk.

“Where’s your other shoe?” I asked.

“Lost,” she answered in a weak voice.

Even if she was strong enough to walk, she wasn’t getting out of here with one shoe.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

“Si…Yes.”

I dug a Clif Bar from my pack, opened it, and handed it to her.

“Stay here for a minute, let me get your pack for you,” I said.

She nodded.

As I walked to get that pack, I took stock of the situation. I was cold myself. It was almost fully dark now. I could smell the snow coming on the stout breeze pouring down the mountainsides into the canyons. I can’t carry her…I can walk out for help but finding her again in the dark won’t be easy. I decided to make a fire, warm up, think it through. I’d be lying if I said part of me didn’t want to leave her with some gear and anonymously call for help when I got back to my truck. But another part of me knew I couldn’t.

##

I scrounged up a handful of twigs, cleared a patch of dirt, made a small tepee of kindling and lit it with my Bic. As the small fire came to life, I clicked on my headlamp and scanned the area for sticks or fallen branches. I collected enough to keep the fire going for an hour or two; not nearly enough to get through a snowy night at 3000 feet. I helped her put her feet next to the flames to warm them.

I rummaged through my pack. I pulled out my aluminum cup, a pack of instant hot chocolate, and the extra wool socks I always kept in my kit. I mixed the hot chocolate and water, stirred it with a stick and set it on the edge of the fire. I took her bare foot and pulled on a sock, then covered it with the second. She might be able to walk like that. We sat silent while the fire heated the drink.

“What’s your name?” she finally asked.

“John. What’s yours?” I asked.

“Dulce.”

“Ok…Dulce. Did you cross from Baja and get lost?” I asked.

She glanced at me, then quickly averted her gaze down at the flames.

“It’s ok. I don’t care if you came across illegally. I’m not la migra,” I said.

She gave a soft chuckle when I said, “la migra.”

“Yes. I was with others. The rain yesterday…was bad…one of the old men with us died, then our coyote left us. The group kept moving…didn’t even bury him…I lost my shoe crossing a stream. I fell hard and hurt my knee and ribs…so couldn’t keep up…They left me to die.”

Fuck. There’s a body out here, too…

“Ok…Did he die on this side or in Mexico?” I asked.

“California.”

Shit.

“Where are you headed?” I asked.

“Los Angeles. I have family and work there…I lived there before.”

##

The dead man settled it. I couldn’t call the Border Patrol. I didn’t want to deal with that shit storm. She’d probably end up in jail and I’d spend the next day answering questions rather than looking for my deer.

“Are you warm enough?” I asked.

“Still a little cold,” she said.

I handed her the warm hot chocolate.

“Drink this. Let’s warm up a little, then I’ll help you out of here. My truck is about an hour walk from here…When we get there, I can drop you off…” I said, still not knowing where I’d drop her.

She looked at me, but in the dim orange glow of the fire, I couldn’t read her face.

We sat silent while she sipped the hot chocolate. I warmed my hands in the little heat the flames offered.

“Are you turning me in?” She finally asked.

It was a fair question, but I’d decided I’d rather avoid ICE and the Border Patrol if possible.

“No…I’ll drop you wherever you want to go. The bus station, maybe?” I said.

She shook her head and sighed.

“I don’t have anything but my clothes…no money. We got robbed in Tijuana…the coyote was going to get us to L.A…” she said.

Damn. I can’t just dump her at a bus stop with no money. Still, do I need this risk?

“It’s ok. I can give you some money to get to L.A. on the bus…a little extra for food and some new tennis shoes. Ok? It’s going to be ok,” I finally said.

As soon as I said this, I felt good, as if I knew this was the right thing to do for her.

She sucked air through her teeth.

“You are kind…but I’m engaged. I can’t…I can’t repay you,” she said.

I didn’t follow what she meant at first, then it hit me. Jesus, this poor woman thinks she has to fuck me for help.

“No…No…I don’t want anything from you. Ok? You’re in trouble and I just want to help you out,” I said.

She let out a soft sob. In the dim shadows, I could see her shoulders shake, her head bowed. I let her cry for a few minutes. While she did, I started to realize I had no clue what people went through just to get some work. I thought of my friends and neighbors who would just as soon die than work in a field or a kitchen. And they would be the same people thankful we were cracking down on illegals like her. Hell, I knew I’d agreed with them before. Now, sitting here with her, life just seemed complicated and unfair.

“Ok. Now we need to start back to my truck,” I said.

I stood and pulled her to her feet. She braced herself on the small tree trunk, while I gathered our packs. When the beam of my head torch crossed her face, she looked ashen, clammy, weak.

“Can you walk?” I asked.

She shrugged.

Shit.

“Let’s take a few steps with you holding on to me,” I said.

She put her arm around my waist, and I put mine across her back. I pulled her into my body. We took a few awkward steps before I was supporting her full weight. Nope. Not happening. I set her back down against the tree. Fuck…now what?

##

I put our packs back on the ground. Then, I pushed the coals of the small fire together in a pile.

“I’m going to go find more wood for the fire,” I said.

I took the emergency bivy from her shoulders and opened the bag.

“Get into that bag. It’ll keep you warmer. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I said.

“You…You’ll come back?” she said.

“Don’t worry. I won’t leave you. I’m going to figure out how to get you out of here…but we need more wood or we’re going to freeze tonight.”

I made a big circle around the area I’d found her, the beam of my headlamp sweeping the ground for scraps of wood. Twenty minutes of searching yielded one five-foot cottonwood branch and an armful of sticks—about two or three more hours of fuel for a small fire.

As I looked for wood, I weighed my options: leave her and go find help? Or stay with her in the hopes she’d be strong enough to walk out in the morning? Neither was good.

##

When I returned, she was shivering again. She gave me a weak smile when she saw me, but she looked bad. She’s not walking out of here. I stoked the fire, careful to save the largest piece of wood as long as possible.

I sat down close to her.

“Dulce, I’m going to stay with you tonight. We’ll be ok. But to stay warm, we need to share that bivy sack. Is…that ok with you?” I asked.

“Yes…thank you.”

I loosened the pull cord at the top of the bag and wriggled in with her back snuggled into my chest, my arms around her. She laid her head on my shoulder. I knew I’d occasionally need to move halfway out the bag to feed our little fire until the wood was gone. Until then, our shared body heat would warm the crowded waterproof bag. After a few minutes, I could feel her relax, stop shivering.

“Get some sleep if you can. If you need to get out of the bag or get cold, let me know, Ok?”

“Thank you.”

The hiss of snow hitting the dying fire woke me around 10:45 p.m. I climbed out of the bag to put the large branch on the fire.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Nowhere. Just feeding the fire,” I said.

She didn’t answer but pulled herself deeper inside the bag. After setting the largest branch across the coals, I walked just outside the glow of the fire to piss. The snow was coming down hard, sticking. Not good. I got back in with her and, exhausted from hunt and stress, dozed off.

##

I woke two more times to stoke the fire. At gray light, I woke again, very cold. She didn’t move when I stirred. I twisted my body to get out of the bag, but unlike the previous times, she didn’t move. It took a beat before alarm began to set in. I struggled out of the bivy and shook her.

“Dulce. Hey…wake up. Come on, now…”

I rolled her onto her back, shook her again. Nothing. I clicked on my headtorch to see better. The beam shown on her blue skin, her eyes closed, her face peaceful. I felt her cold neck for a pulse. Nothing…no. No. No. Please…

She was gone.

##

That was two years ago. Like the deer I never found, like Dulce, I was wounded on that arroyo. Horrific as it was, the image of finding her dead isn’t what haunts me. Every day, I imagine the struggles she endured on her journey north. I was now painfully aware that little wounds, wounds of the flesh, wounds of the soul, can kill you if you don’t try to heal them. I’ve come to understand the world is gray and there’ll always be times when the morally right thing is not the easy thing, not the legal thing.

But, more than anything, I worry that her man and family still hold out hope she will someday arrive, walk through the door with a smile and a tall tale. I wonder if like that deer I shot, their wounds are slowly killing them while they suffer never really knowing.

Those are my ghosts.

BIO: JD Clapp is a writer based in San Diego, CA. His creative work has appeared in over 70 different literary journals and magazines including Cowboy Jamboree, trampset, and Revolution John. His work has been nominated for several awards including the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best Small Fictions. He is the author of two story collections—Poachers and Pills (2025), and A Good Man Goes South (2024). His debut novel, Grit Before Grace, will be published by Cowboy Jamboree Press in fall 2026.