The Growling Cat Ranch: Book 1 of the Cody Hunter Series

By Xlibris US

Cody Hunter patrolled the Mexico border by horseback in southern Arizonas expansive desert. He was ambushed and flown to a dangerous drug cartel near Bogota. While being held prisoner, he heard big cats caged nearby and dubbed the headquarters The Growling Cat Ranch.

This cartel entertained its friends in high places and neighboring drug lords by feeding the cats live human beings, preferably U. S. law enforcement officers.

Cody, having never piloted an airplane, escaped certain death by stealing one but crashed into the forest. He eluded his hunters and found refuge at the D.E.A. station in Bogota.

The cartel kidnapped his wife in Tucson, then, she too, was destined for the jaguar cages. He rescued her singlehandedly against incredible odds.

Having proven himself as a fighter and expert marksman, Cody is inducted into a secret organization that evens the playing field when justice is obstructed by power and rules that prevent convictions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493187201

Book preview

THE GROWLING

CAT RANCH

Book 1 of the Cody Hunter Series

Homer A. Taylor

Copyright © 2014 by Homer A. Taylor.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014905041

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4931-8721-8

   Softcover   978-1-4931-8722-5

   eBook   978-1-4931-8720-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 03/21/14

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

611944

CONTENTS

FORWARD

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

EPILOGUE

For my little sister, Ellen Trantham, the computer expert.

With love

FORWARD

Outside Death Valley, southern Arizona’s desert region is the hottest area in the United States. Water is drastically scarce. Life-sustaining water is hidden under the surface as deep as 1,400 feet.

In the wilderness, however, water for the innumerable illegal immigrants entering the United States through Arizona’s deserts is found in the numerous barrel cacti. They generously dot the deserts’ expansive floors. Nomadic natives lived off them for centuries. While these cacti totally exist for human consumption, people from countries south of the border continue to perish amid them as if they are not there! Jack rabbits, desert tortoise, and pack rats constantly bore into them for their life-sustaining liquid.

Anywhere from one to ten people from points south of the border are found dead each summer in the desert in southern Arizona. Innocent people bred in the more tropical regions of Mexico and Central America are totally ignorant to the dangers they face when they challenge the desert. It’s never taught them and generations of the word of mouth method reached no further than There is work in the United States!

Rumors south of Mexico depict the police in the United States as cruel robbers and killers. They have no idea that our once prosperous country has a constitution that protects its citizens and all those within its borders. Our nation is still young in comparison with the socialist nations south. Those people have never challenged their oppressive governments and lived. They hear about God’s land where work, food, medicine, and shelter are plentiful, something their nations have never had since the Spaniards discovered them centuries ago.

The Spaniards, with the blessings of their Popes, spread their poisonous governments throughout the new world’s two continents during the periods of discovery. Those nations are delicately referred as Third world countries.

Realistically, the more accurate description of these governments is socio-economic, meaning socialist—better said, communist. The difference is found only in the U.S.A.’s recent invention of the words: Political correctness.

Their governments are exactly why their people blatantly flock to the United States of America. In their course, those raised in the more tropical regions cannot survive hardships from the sun and lack of water across the desert. Their deaths, in spite of popular views of blaming innocent U. S. citizens, their deaths rests entirely and unequivocally due to oppressive, socialistic governments, no more and no less.

Such political information belongs in a work of non-fiction, it needs to be blasted across the air waves and television every day and night until we are sick of it, but political correctness prevents it and provides a permanent hiding place for facts. For whatever they’re worth, these facts provide a basis for the first few pages in this work of fiction.

Homer A. Taylor

Lubbock, Texas

CHAPTER 1

Cody Hunter, a medium built man of thirty years, sat astride his favorite U. S. Customs horse. He called him Speck because of his burnt sienna color. The old horse had been seized from drug smugglers a year previously. A short while later the unlikely pair formed a valuable tracking team. They both understood the heat and the valuable expense of spending energy under the endless attack by the sun. They made no extra moves in the oven-like temperatures unless it was time to do so. The extreme heat grew higher as southern Arizona’s merciless sun pushed toward noon and would be even higher throughout the afternoon.

They stopped on the scant trail in the rocks four miles north of the border. On this course, a northward direction would lead them into a vast wilderness seventy miles deep before reaching the nearest highway that appeared to lead into infinity in both directions.

Using his binoculars, Cody spotted his quarry. There were five of them. He had correctly guessed this number from what he had seen earlier at the border fence crossing. They were wavering figures through the silvery heat waves only slightly more than a mile north. Their fresh tracks at the border fence three hours earlier almost told him the story, for two of them wore women’s shoes. They pressed northward at a daring pace, almost invisible in the brightness enhanced by the heat. No hats or headwear protected their heads from the sun. Only the leader wore a hat. They tried desperately to keep up with the leader in the rugged terrain. The two men appeared to be struggling more than the women, who had tirelessly kept up with their strong leader.

Cody’s cold blue eyes narrowed as he urged his horse forward with only a slight movement with his heels. The two women appeared to be slowing. He hoped that he could reach them in time.

The leader kept well in front of his four customers and carried the lone, white, water bottle. Cody easily surmised the man’s intentions. The smuggler had done it many times prior during the past two years. He touched the mane of his mount and spoke for the first time in two hours. He liked to keep his horse current concerning their business. It let the horse know that they worked as a team. His horse always lent an ear in the event such senseless utterings proved to be a command.

"It certainly appears that we have the notorious El Cobre leading another group to their doom, Speck. Let’s catch up and see what we can do about that."

The leader of the group stopped his fast pace and held the water bottle high. He jiggled it around a bit and took a long draw, leaving only a couple swallows.

The two women watched helplessly and grinned when he grinned. Surely this was a cruel joke he was playing, for they had not drunk water since early that morning at the border fence. There must be water nearby, for the man played with all four of their lives. Yet he made no move to offer them water.

The two men stopped immediately, grateful for the rest and wished they had the strength to overpower the man and take his water. If he didn’t provide them water soon, they would collapse and die. They only listened as their tired feet remained unsteady on the blistering, rocky surface. They saw no shade, no protection as far as they could see, only mile after mile of merciless heat.

The guide grinned again. I have told you that it would be a difficult journey, my friends. Understand, what I have planned for you is much better than being arrested by the United States police. They will beat and rob you and rape your women before they leave you here in the desert to die. He shook the water carton again.

"Senores, the water! There is so little remaining. If you want to drink water, then you must pay me for my services in addition to the money. I only want to spend a little time alone with your wives. They will have water to drink. You will also have water to drink! I know all the water ponds in this desert. We are close to one of them."

The women dropped to their knees and pleaded. Please! Do not do this terrible thing. We have paid you money. We must have water!

The guide nodded in agreement. He lifted the jug to the men and raised his voice. The women want water! Do you want water to drink or do you wish to die here in the sun?

The women wept. Each of the two men nodded their heads in agreement. One of them spoke in a harsh whisper, for his vocal chords were dry. You are a devil!

The guide shook his head negatively and lifted his index finger as a teacher might correct a first grader. "No! I am called El Cobre."

Both men stood on their feet wishing for strength but knew if they moved they would fall. They had to save their women at any cost.

The guide sat down and rested a few moments. "You have made a wise decision, senores."

The women sat still. Their husbands almost fell as they attempted to sit. None of them heard the sound of the galloping horse. What they heard mostly was blood rushing passed their eardrums like the roar of a large steam engine. The guide was about to raise the water bottle again when he suddenly looked up and yelled: Run! Run for your lives! It is the police. You will die!

None of the four victims moved except to turn their heads south toward the galloping horse. The guide ran only a few steps. He saved his strength. Caught! He cursed himself for failing to bring his gun as the horseman drew near.

Cody, unsmiling and glaring at the smuggler, unslung a full canteen from his saddle horn and tossed it to the men as he pulled his horse to a halt. Then he moved further northward to the women and lowered his own canteen to them. After they took it, he trotted to the guide and dismounted. His face grim, his mouth set.

The dreaded El Cobre never expected this. He cowered back, sensing big trouble from this younger man and thought fast. Good day to you, sir! he said in Spanish. We are of El Salvador and I think we have lost ourselves in this land. Are we still in Mexico or have we entered the United States? We are only here to find work!"

Cody’s eyes remained locked on the smuggler as he moved within inches of the cobra’s nose. In Spanish, he said, I know who you are, killer. I have found many bodies here in this desert that you have left to die.

El Cobre backed a few steps and shook his head negatively. No—no! Sir, I have never been in your country before! I am of El Salvador!

Cody followed, his eyes never softening, gave the man ample time to attack and take his gun. When he drew close again, he lifted his right boot almost knee high and brought the heel down on the left instep of El Cobre. They heard no sound of crunching bone, only a loud thump and the breath that El Cobre allowed through his open mouth.

Ayee! That hurt¸ sir! Why have you hit my foot?

Cody remained still and watched the murderous guide sit and began trying to cradle his foot. "You have a few swallows in your jug, Cobre, I suggest you use it wisely before you refill it over there at the base of that little hill. However, the last time I saw the water, a dead rat floated on its surface."

El Cobre looked at him in disbelief. You will leave me here with no water?

Cody nodded affirmatively. I have planned this day for two years!

El Cobre pleaded with him. But sir, I am of El Salvador!

Cody turned back to the men and shouted. How much did you pay this coyote?

They said nothing, unsure of how to answer.

Nothing! El Cobre shouted to them. You gave me no money! Tell this officer that I am with you! Tell him that I am of El Salvador!"

One of the women spoke. Are you going to rob us?

Cody grinned for the first time. His white row of teeth shinned amid his tanned features on a face that the women found appealing. No. The police of the United States will not rob and beat you like this great liar has, without a doubt, told you many times.

Then he turned back to El Cobre and lifted his finger at him as a silent warning. He asked the group the second time, How much money did you give this man to guide you across this desert?

They lowered their heads in fear and said nothing, still unsure of their fate. The same woman spoke up. We each paid him 100 American dollars this morning. He has not given us water to drink since that time!

Cody turned to the guide and held his hand out to him. Give me the money, unless you want to lose the service of your other foot.

El Cobre reached deeply into his front pocket and presented Cody a purse, one fat with bills. Cody refused it and ordered him to remove the money he took from the victims. The guide counted out 400 dollars and passed the wad of bills to him.

Cody recounted it and gave it to the woman who would talk with him. He also noted the contempt building in the smuggler’s unsmiling face. No smuggler likes to part with his hard-earned money.

He sneered when Cody turned back to face him. You will die for this bad thing that you have done, horseman.

Cody noted the warning and said, "I have no fear of you, snake! Be quiet! In fact, I feel good at this time! Get yourself up and start walking. Move now, goat, while you are still able! In fact, I think that I will change your name from El Cobre to El Cabrito, the little goat."

El Cobre obeyed but caught Cody’s eyes for the second time. Remember my words!

Cody not only met the man’s eyes but stared hard into them. El Cobre quickly turned away. Cody took a step with him and said, I thank you for my good day. Your foot will grow big very fast. It would be wise for you to remove your boot right now.

Cody lifted the two women aboard his horse after he watched the would-be killer limp heavily in the direction he had come while carrying a boot in his hand. He told the men that they could ride after a mile or so. They had five miles to go before reaching his truck and trailer. The men walked strong with the water they shared.

Cody eventually wanted a drink but refused to ask for one. The women needed it more than he. They had hardly covered a mile before the women asked to walk in order that their husbands could ride. The women had renewed spirits and asked him questions on what would be happening to them.

He assured them that they would be turned over to the authorities of immigration, the U. S. Border Patrol. They asked if they would be robbed and raped by those officers. Again, he assured them that the Border Patrol officers were kind people and would feed them well before they had hearings for deportation proceedings. Then they asked questions about the procedure that he couldn’t answer. They reached the truck and horse trailer safely in slightly more than two hours.

TWO days after turning the group over to the U. S. Border Patrol, Cody’s boss received a formal notice from the Assistant U. S. Attorney’s office that both men would be in his office the first thing the following morning. There was no reason why, only the message.

Cody’s boss, Fred Hinshaw, faced him and stared straight into Cody’s resilient blue eyes. He asked him to try real hard to figure out why they had to suddenly appear before a U. S. Attorney. Cody’s expression turned helpless. He had no idea. In fact, he began to regret having tried to break the smuggler’s foot out in the desert, even if he lacked what he really deserved.

He cared for the horses and seriously began to consider if the snake had actually contacted a lawyer in the United States. Perhaps he entered a lawsuit against U. S. Customs. Surely not, but then, the world was getting stranger every day. He could think of nothing more unless he appeared as a witness against the El Salvadorians during a deportation hearing. That made no sense, either. He learned the truth the next morning.

The El Salvadorians had requested political asylum in the United States. During the interrogations that followed, a certain immigration official learned that Cody stomped the foot of their smuggler and left him to die in the desert. Such matters needed to be investigated in order to keep the U. S. federal officers under control and free from damaging rumors.

Cody leaned across the table in the interrogation room and turned the recorder off. Any more of these things about? he asked.

His boss, who had sat calmly to one side, suddenly took hold of his arm, Cody, what’re you doing?

The U. S. Attorney smiled and held his hand against Fred’s interference. He asked, Does this involve a little Texas Justice?

Cody nodded affirmatively. I tried to break his foot but my boot heel glanced off his instep. Fred Hinshaw let out a long groan. Oh—lord!"

The attorney kept his smile intact. "Was this poor smuggler the innocent victim who calls himself El Cobre?"

Cody nodded. The one and the same. I suppose your source failed to tell you that. The intended victims certainly knew his name.

The attorney suddenly snapped his notebook closed and got to his feet. You’re exactly right. She failed to tell me. Gentlemen, thank you for coming in. Frankly, if this goes public, please be advised that I won’t be able to defend you. Off the record, though, good job, Cody! No one is going to prosecute you through this office in this district. That’s a promise.

Cody stood and shook his hand. Thanks.

Once outside the office, Cody began to feel the sting of not keeping the boss current on all of his activities. Both men knew that if the immigration officers had the time and money to subpoena El Cobre from Mexico as a witness against him. They would do exactly that if they thought they could earn positive publicity through the news media. They loved to be heroes and they desperately needed to remain afloat during the incredible influx of border crossings from the south. They needed to be heroes for the positive publicity or else Congress would turn their back on them. Consequently through the errors of modern government, they would accept hero worship from the public over any scapegoat they could find. All they needed was a U. S. Attorney that would take the case and agree to prosecute."

Fred nudged him angrily outside the office. That was dumb, Cody. You can’t pull that stuff during these times! You know how jealous Immigration is of us!

Cody could deny nothing. Sorry, boss. I just wanted to keep you clear of this.

Well—you screwed that up good and proper. It doesn’t matter if I know about it or not, I’m still responsible for your actions. You need to start realizing that and you’d better clean up your act, mister, or else find another job.

Fred, you know I couldn’t hold another job down after working for the federal government, especially for an agency as easy on its employees as U. S. Customs. I’m ruined, so lighten up! I’ll tell you something, though. We’re both going to be looking for jobs one of these days. The Immigration Service has the news media on its side and they have the popularity to run us off the border anytime they please. This attempt to get me prosecuted would be something they could point their finger toward us while bragging to the press that they’d never do anything so cruel and stupid.

Fred looked at him skeptically as they walked down the hall. Man, you are so bitter, even if you’re right about that! And you’re telling me to lighten up?

Cody paid him no mind. Besides, they’d have to subpoena the snake to appear over here against me. El Cobre doesn’t trust the Border Patrol (BP), not that I blame him. If they try to subpoena him, he won’t show because he’s afraid it’ll be a trick to capture him on this side of the border. He ain’t about to come to this country unless they offer him a lot of money up front."

Fred disagreed. I don’t know. If I were the snake I’d jump at the chance to put you in jail if you tried to break my foot. Don’t be surprised if BP comes up with the money and a signed contract stating they’ll protect ’im.

Now who’s the skeptic around here?

Fred said, "I ain’t joking! Maybe you’d better resign from the service right now and go back to washing dishes in some cockroach-infested greasy spoon in Tucson. It’d save everybody a lot of trouble. El Cobre could get back to doing his thing with killing innocent people and we’d all be normal again."

Cody grinned at his boss’s dry humor. No way, boss. I’ll take my chances on getting fired. Besides, I’ll implicate you as my coach if I ever get in trouble again.

Fred shook his head sadly and groaned again. Cody, you couldn’t make a joke if you took a course in college on it. Why don’t you count your money and see if you can buy us a six-pack for the trip back home? You’ll be the driver, of course.

Cody slapped him on the shoulder. Sorry, boss! You’re gonna have to buy your own beer. Today’s Friday, remember? You’re gonna run me by my wife’s apartment to drop me off and then drive yourself home. She’ll run me back to the border Sunday afternoon.

Fred grumbled, It’s early. You still have five hours left on your shift.

Cody ignored the remark. Don’t forget to feed the horses twice each day and make sure they have water.

Fred kept grumbling. Man, I hate this job!

Cody turned to his boss and said with a note of finality: "The BP can’t protect Cobre forever and everyone knows it. He knows that he got off lightly with a sore foot."

CHAPTER 2

Cody was riding eastward on the border fence when a bullet suddenly broke the day’s silence by slamming through the air within inches of his nose—loud and harsh! At first he thought something had exploded in his face. Grunting from having to move too fast unexpectedly, he somersaulted backward over the saddle as his horse bounded forward. The second bullet ricocheted off tiny rocks and stung his face as his whole body bounced on the hard surface. He heard the air forced from his lungs as he consciously hoped nothing was broken. He remembered noting a total lack of cover on his way down. He rolled behind a tiny mesquite as fast as possible. The little bush offered about as much protection as a toothpick, but he used it and lay still.

The third bullet never came, yet he expected to feel it ripping through his spine as each agonizing second lingered over his exposed back. He clung to the rocky surface with his entire body, trying desperately to melt into it. The painful moments of waiting seemed endless. After more waiting, he rolled over and caught a brief glance of his horse’s rump as it disappeared into a northward wash, running free and happy over the opportunity to leave him afoot. He sighed, still half expecting a bullet to rip through his body. He called to his horse, If you can’t find the corrals, come on back and I’ll give you directions!

The sound of Speck’s ironclad hooves striking the rocks in the distance were even louder as he expected as the horse turned on his speed. Cody mumbled aloud, Nothing like a good horse to save a man some steps in the desert, even if the distance is no more than two miles!

Running north for Cody would prove nothing but a waste of energy. He wanted to escape the sniper, yet the sniper was taking his time. This was either torture or else his gun had jammed. Yet, as time passed, he knew that if his shooter wanted him dead, he would have been dead moments ago. He scanned the small mountains to the south and spotted the nearest ledge about twenty feet up a rocky slope. His shooter had been close, less than a hundred yards away. He also used a large rifle. Missing at such a close range made no sense. The shooter had to be an expert by coming so close and shooting that fast. The second bullet struck the ground at exactly the right place to sting his face. The question of no more bullets haunted him, however grateful he felt. He had made a large target and lain perfectly still. This had to be some sort of new game! He wondered at the intelligence of it because the shooter had to know that scare tactics didn’t work with his organization. The shooter also knew that if Cody had spotted him, he wouldn’t have missed with his heavy revolver at such a close range.

Cody jumped to his feet and leaped south across the border fence. Perhaps the shooter left him a message. El Cobre didn’t do this. The snake would’ve chosen a body shot instead of the head shots that missed by inches. Perhaps the coyote had hired someone to scare him. That made no sense, either. El Cobre didn’t work this way. Someone else dreamed up this nonsense. No one wanted him dead, but why try to scare him?

His office in the St. Luke, Arizona Port of Entry waited for him from two miles east. With his horse running north up the rocky wash, and with his only radio tucked safely away in the saddlebags, not to mention his canteens bouncing off the side of his saddle, he sighed heavily. I don’t care what the experts say about exercise, walking is definitely not good for you!

His revolver remained holstered as he ascended the small hill to the flattened area that stood less than half the distance of a football field south of the fence. Two shinny cartridges lay on the ground exactly where they fell from the rifle. Evidence of scratches by a single pair of feet had scattered loose rocks on the hard surface. He kept studying the ground and finally pieced together the prints of normal-sized gym shoes. He matched his own size nine with the prints. A shooter with almost new gym shoes makes no sense!

No doubt, the shooter didn’t want to be seen and had disappeared fast. A vehicle would be waiting on the opposite side of the mountain. He turned back down the gentle slope and skidded on loose rocks to easier walking on the north side of the border fence. He had no interest in stealing a glimpse of the vehicle this far into Mexico. No need to file any paper on this, either, but he would put the word out at his station that some lunatic sniper was trying to scare him.

Fred, his immediate supervisor, wouldn’t want paperwork filed because of the U.S. Customs heads in Washington, D.C. Those people would investigate for a year to ensure that no one in the in U. S. Customs at this local station had harassed the Mexico government. In their limited thinking, it would have to be the government officials shooting at him because no citizen of Mexico could own weapons. Laws prevented that from happening. In fact, his superiors in D.C. might even take away all of the station’s weapons in order for the US officers to appear more non-threatening to their sensitive neighbors in Mexico. Cody did not trust U. S. officers on the federal level, so there would definitely be no paperwork filed on this. The U. S. Border Patrol on the other hand, might get miles of press out of this and have more men hired and more money for their budget "Best they don’t hear about it, either." he mused.

An hour later Cody’s co-worker, Harris, let him out of his Customs-marked sedan next to the truck that pulled his horse trailer. Upon seeing him, Speck began stamping his front feet and nickering, waiting impatiently at the gate for Cody to unsaddle him and let him inside with the other horses. Cool water and fresh hay waited. Cody stalled too much, according to the horse, and he let him know by tossing his head, stamping his feet and nickering even louder.

After unsaddling his mount and tossing a large bale of alfalfa to the horses, he dusted his pants free of the hay and thought more about who had shot at him and why. With no known enemies outside El Cobre, the list narrowed to no one. Glancing up he spotted his brown horse among the others. The horse watched him with both ears pointed earnestly in his direction. He ground the hay vigorously with strong molars while watching Cody intently. Cody quickly glanced behind him in case the horse had his ears trained on someone else. No one! Perhaps the horse wanted to communicate something. Cody spoke to him. Who was it, partner?

Speck ignored him and found another mouthful of fresh hay where competing mouths filled their own. Cody shrugged and headed toward his truck. Perhaps not.

He fried himself a small steak and ate a half-can of spinach while doing so. After the steak, he decided to pull a couple hours overtime by watching his favorite wash near the border. It ran south from the mountains to fan out after passing south under the border fence into the lower flats of Mexico. The wash measured wider than most dry streambeds. It had coarse river sand and smooth rocks covering its bed. Illegal entrants used it daily, and sometimes drug smugglers crossed the fence to hide their tracks as they blended well with the tracks of the illegal entrants. Hundreds of tracks filled the wash where the coarse sand prevailed at the bends, appearing more like a herd of buffalo instead of people.

He missed his wife, and it was only Thursday. He lived alone on Mondays through Fridays. The next night his wife would be preparing a meal for him if he failed to prepare it for her. Lydia taught school in Tucson through the week and spent weekends with him if he didn’t drive to the city and spend the two days in her apartment. Staying home in the evenings without his wife never appealed to him, so he performed surveillances at the known crossing areas to pass the time. Loving one’s job made a lot of difference in the success of combating drug smuggling on the border.

He concentrated on backing his truck northward in the wash around a bend to where any walkers would be upon him unexpectedly. A large ironwood’s overhanging limbs shadowed the shiny paint from the moon and starlight. The bright night’s shadows hid him well. He used the same shade regularly and had greeted many illegal entrants. Occasionally, he ambushed backpackers (mules, who smuggled up to sixty pounds of marijuana in their backpacks). That, he reminded himself, had been a long time ago!

He rolled his window halfway down in order to hear any approaching footsteps. His goodtime radio stayed in the off position. Later, he planned to listen to the single radio station available in that remote area, a 50,000 watt station in the Oakland Bay area. Listening to the two radio talk-show hosts from that strange city all night long kept him abreast of what happened in the other world he shared Those strange people pushed for the legalization of marijuana. They wanted an open border with Mexico, too. They brought up the legalization of homosexual marriages, along with condoms provided free of charge for high school girls. This was their way of fighting birth control. They had many other ideas they thought would strengthen America, but they would come slowly. Cody believed these talking points to be good reference points between good and evil, valuable for the welfare of the United States! The people who called the talk show hosts kept him amused. Their slow voices sounded empty and lacked intelligence and gusto, probably due to sucking on too many joints. Brain dead! Perhaps one of them would someday be President of the United States.

An hour passed with nothing but the soft sound of mosquitos humming nearby. Then he heard footsteps crunching deeply in the coarse sand, several of them. He could hear their voices carrying incredible distances in the stillness where no other sound interfered. He waited two minutes before quietly stepping out of the truck and easing his noisy door into the closed position. The dome light faded away. They would be rounding the bend shortly, talking loudly and excited, anxious for their new adventure north where they would find work. Their talking told him they held no fear of crossing illegally into the United States. Drug smugglers would be scared and alert for the police. The quiet ones most always proved to be drug smugglers.

They failed to see Cody squatting down in their pathway until almost bumping into him, well within ten feet. He rose and shinned his light in their faces. He counted six men, no backpacks, just the small sack of goodies the illegal entrants usually carried, a razor, bar of soap, and a half-pound of goat cheese for nourishment. Their excitement had been replaced with surprise.

One of them asked him. "Migra? (Meaning immigration, their name for the U. S. Border Patrol.)

Cody spoke calmly. "No, senores. Please pass with no problem."

The same one asked again, his excitement having returned. "Have you seen the migra, senor?" The leader, no doubt, had made several trips north. He was perhaps even a smuggler of people. He carried a tricky bag that contained a razor, soap, apples, toilet paper goat cheese and other small personal items, plus the same amount of water as the others. He simply had experience.

Not today. Have a good journey. He didn’t tell them that he had no legal authority to ask them if they were in the United States of America legally or not. That privilege belonged to the U. S. Border Patrol, exclusively, until someone challenged the ruling. His job was to try to maintain some type of control over the endless drug traffic entering the US.

All of them thanked him in Spanish as he stepped back inside his truck. Now would be the time to watch for smugglers. The illegals would go first, and if they raised no police, no officers of any type would be about. Cody relaxed a moment then prepared to ambush backpackers, who usually carried sixty pounds of marijuana each on their backs. Those who packed it twice a week were strong and agile and stayed in top shape. Each one could be a worthy opponent for Cody’s 180 pounds of slenderness if they wished, but they had no fear of time in jail if arrested. Cody planned to move closer to the bend, well out of sight of his truck before he suddenly jumped the leaders. He would knock them all down with his shoulders before identifying himself. This method. wasn’t taught at the academy, but experience on the border taught him to rely on common sense. Backpackers, as a general rule, chose to be docile but wild. They simply dropped their backpacks and ran south when facing arrest. While this close to the border fence, Cody not only must knock them down but also keep them down, else they would run for the border. He could do this to a small group. They went down easily with the heavy packs on their backs if he got to them fast enough; otherwise, they escaped.

Ten minutes later he grew tired of waiting. Suddenly, with a loud pop, a hole appeared in his windshield! The third bullet had finally arrived! It missed his head by inches. The sound of the rifle and the bullet striking the windshield was instantaneous. His body leaped from the seat as he heard it. He had even seen the muzzle flash! The bullet missed him by two inches! Tiny fragments of glass covered his face but none in his eyes. Unthinking, he fell to the floor as far under the dash as he could possibly get and pulled his revolver.

Wrong thing to do! his conscience screamed at him. He slid out of the truck and hugged the side of it, waiting for the second shot. This would also be a waste of time! The