BORDER TALES

By Donnie Daniels

True to life short stories from thirty years of working the southern border in Texas and New Mexico from 1967 thru 1999, with the US Border Patrol, US Customs & the Luna County, NM Sheriff’s Dept.

Dedicated to all law enforcement officers, especially the men & women of the US Border Patrol. Without the training and experience I obtained from the USBP, I’d probably still be punching cows!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781648017001

Book preview

Pre-Border Patrol Days

Prior to the BP, I had worked at several jobs in and around Dallas, Texas—a plumbing supply store, cleaning swimming pools, and Sears & Roebuck. I finally started working at a brass and copper warehouse owned by two brothers in Dallas. One of the brothers always wanted a ranch. I had been with them for about four years when the older one purchased a small ranch in Kaufman County. (Kaufman County is the next county east of Dallas.) The ranch was about 450 acres with about twenty-five head of cattle and four head of horses. It had a large house on it that could be made into a duplex. The owner offered the back part to me and my wife, along with our two kids, rent-free, just to have someone on the ranch; and he would pay for my gas to drive into work.

Just after we moved in, the guy seeing after his cows quit on him. I told him not to worry as I could easily see after them, as I had worked on a ranch when I was living at home. But every time a piece of land bordering the ranch came up for sale, he bought it. I even purchased my own horse, Koko. When I finally left, he had over one thousand acres, twelve head of horses, and about one hundred head of cattle.

Koko and I about 1962.

I then found employment with Armored Motor Service in Dallas, which had just received a contract with the Federal Reserve Bank in Dallas, Texas, to transport money to member banks in Texas and Louisiana. The armored trucks were large three-compartment vehicles. Just behind the driver and codriver was a compartment with two bunks and two seats for the extra two guards, and behind that was the compartment that held the money, both cash and coins.

There were about five of these large trucks making runs, sometimes at night to places like Dalhart, Texas, and then we would work our way back toward Dallas, dropping off cash and coins. We also picked up any surplus cash that was returned to the Federal Reserve. When we arrived at a bank, the two guys in front carried in the money. One of the rear guards armed with a sawed-off shotgun guarded them into the bank and then the truck until they returned.

One day, while en route to another bank, the driver and the crew chief were talking about the shotgun guard and where he should be. Company policy stated that the guard was to be outside the truck while the money was delivered. I was lying on the top bunk behind the driver, and there was a heavy mesh wire between us. The driver finally asked me where I thought the shotgun guard should be.

It just depends, I answered.

Depends on what? he asked.

On if I’m taking in the money or if I’m the guard! I replied.

Well, what the hell does that matter? he asked.

If I have the shotgun, I want to be in the truck, but if I’m carrying in the money, then I want the guard outside of the truck, I replied.

That makes no sense, he stated.

Sure, it does. The first guy the robbers are going to shoot is the shotgun guard, and while they are shooting your fat butt, I’ll get away, I replied.

I noticed after that, he really watched the top of buildings.

One of the armored trucks used in 1966.

It was while I was still working for Armored Motor and making a money delivery to a bank in Ozona, Texas, that I met a US Border Patrolman. He was in the bank letting an illegal cash his check, and he and I got to talking. He informed me that the BP was going to hire some more patrol inspectors and I should apply. When I returned to Dallas, I took the civil service test, passed it, and then had my oral board interview by three officers of the BP, where I was asked some hypothetical questions.

The one I remember is this: I’m assigned to a remote airfield with a sidearm and walkie-talkie. I observe an aircraft land, and it’s met by a van and several men with automatic weapons. While they are loading crates into the aircraft, one breaks open and weapons fall out. They tell me it’s a federal violation to smuggle weapons out of the US and that my radio is not working. What’s the first thing you’re going to do? asked one of the board members.

Make damn sure they don’t see me! I answered. I noticed two of the board members were trying not to laugh!

Anyway, I guess I passed because they sent me out to the VA hospital for my physical. I remember you had to be five foot and eight inches and weigh at least 140 pounds. I was six feet and had to eat about four pounds of bananas! I was later told to report to the BP chief at McAllen, Texas, where I met Chief Tommy Ball.

Cal White was the other trainee, and we were sworn in by Chief Ball. He then told us if we went into Mexico and got into trouble, he would come get us one time! About two days later, Eddie Bentley showed up to be another trainee. Ed had been a Texas State Trooper assigned to Kingsville, Texas, when he applied. The first telegram he received told him to report to San Diego, California. Ed threw it away. A few days later, the next telegram stated if a more suitable duty station was acceptable, he was to report to McAllen. Ed, smelling a rat, went to the Kingsville BP supervisor and asked him if they would leave him in McAllen or if they would move him just as soon as he was hired. The SPI of the station assured him that he would spend at least a few years in the McAllen sector.

About midway through the academy, Ed and I were both transferred to Rio Grande City, Texas, still in the McAllen sector. After finishing my probation of one year, I had two days to kid Big Ed that he was still a trainee. I even put up a four-by-eight-feet sign at the station, stating, Welcome to Rio Grande City, the only station on the southern border with one trainee. More about this later. Lucky for me, Ed was good natured because he was big enough to have kicked my butt. We worked a lot of nights together and walked many miles tracking in Starr County. Once we were on the trail, I don’t believe we ever lost any. Of course, that could be just old age thinking! Ed had been born and raised near Shamrock, Texas, in the Texas Panhandle. He had a hard time rolling his rs in Spanish but was a damn fine pistol shot and one damn fine PI. He later transferred to Alamogordo, New Mexico, and became a supervisor. Then after he retired, he became a rehired annuitant at FLETC in firearms. Then later in Artesia, New Mexico, he trained the air marshals.

The Foot Race

In 1967, after I applied and was accepted as a Border Patrol trainee and reported to my first station in McAllen, Texas, I worked there for a week and then went to the BP academy at Port Isabel, Texas. We spend four hours a day learning Spanish. The rest of the time we were given other subjects, like immigration law, self-defense, and a lot of firearms training. After about ten weeks in the academy, I was called to the chief’s office and informed that I was being transferred to Rio Grande City, Texas (a garden spot in south Texas). Ed Bentley was also transferred along with me.

Finding Rio Grande City is easy—just go south from Dallas until you smell crap; that’s San Antonio. Keep going south until you step in it; that’s Rio Grande City. Home to rattlesnakes, smugglers, and the Mexican mafia. There is an old story about Rio Grande City that only two kinds of people live there: smugglers and politicians. You associated with the smugglers, as they were a better class of people.

When we arrived in Rio Grande, we met an older couple that lived across the street from us. These two people, Lola and Juan Alvarez, adopted my family. Lola would bring over homemade tortillas and other goodies at least once a week. She taught my wife how to make flour tortillas from scratch, and I have been addicted to tortillas ever since. It also disproved the above story.

One day, while still on probation, I was driving west to Roma, Texas, when I spotted a person near the highway hiding in the brush. As I turned my unit around, eight illegal aliens broke like a covey of quail and ran toward the river. I jumped over the fence and tackled one of them. (At the time, I didn’t know that I had caught the main smuggler.) As I was giving him a pat down for weapons, he broke loose and ran toward the river, which was about a mile away. Unable to recatch him in the heavy brush, I pulled my weapon and fired a round by his foot, and that was the last time I saw him. The BP’s aircraft was in the area, and he flew over and called me on the radio. He stated that he had just seen a man run from the brush on the US side and wade the river back to Mexico. The pilot stated that the guy appeared to be badly cut by the cacti and thorns. Everything down there will stab you, stick you, or bite you. I never told anyone about firing my weapon.

A few weeks later, the station supervisor of the Border Patrol in Rio Grande City, Gilbert Catfish Lee, who did a lot of anti-smuggling work in the Republic of Mexico, told me that he had met an informant who could help us with information on smuggling. (Lee also had several trotlines on the river for catfish, hence the nickname.) Lee stated that the informant, Gustavo (not his real name), wanted to meet me. Lee said, He doesn’t know your name, but he described you to a T. The next evening, Lee and I drove into Mexico. When we met the informant at his house, I thought he looked a little familiar. After talking awhile, over several bottles of Carta Blanca beer, Gustavo asked if he could talk to me alone. We walked over to one side where he informed me that he was the one I had chased in the brush. He stated that I had scared the crap out of him when I shot next to his foot. He said, We don’t go armed in your country, and you aren’t supposed to shoot at us.

Then don’t run from me next time, I replied. Gustavo apologized for running and swore he would never do it again. He furnished a lot of good information on narcotics smuggling, and I never again shot by anyone’s foot.

Mitzie and I celebrating the end of my probation in Reynosa, Mexico, 1968.

Gustavo

The story of meeting Gustavo reminded me of another time I worked with him on some smuggling information. This was about a year later, and I had moved my family to a house about three miles west of Rio Grande City and about a mile from the river. Just about everybody in Mexico knew where I lived, and this was not a problem in those days. Even the worse crooks and smugglers would not bother your family. They would kill you, but your family was safe. In fact, Gustavo waded the river several times and walked to my home to give me information on smuggling.

Gustavo told us that two men had approached him from Houston, Texas, to smuggle eight ounces of heroin across the river and deliver it to them in Houston. These men had purchased the heroin near China, Nuevo Leon, Mexico, but did not want to try crossing it into the US. SPA Lee instructed me to contact the Customs agents and see how they wanted to proceed. Customs stated they would pick up Gustavo on the riverbank and would carry him and the heroin to Houston. After the delivery, and when Gustavo was out of the area, they and local law enforcement would arrest the two dopers. I met with Gustavo and gave him the place and time to meet the agents on the river. Eight ounces of heroin was a big deal in those days and still is today.

The night came for the agents to pick up Gustavo. I was processing two illegals at the BP office when the telephone rang. It was my wife telling me that Gustavo was at the house because no one came to meet him. I quickly called the Customs agents on the radio and asked, Where are you guys? They reported that they were running late but were en route to the location on the river to pick up Gustavo. Well, don’t go there, go to my house. He’s waiting for you, I replied.

When I came home later that night, I asked my wife what had happened. She said that she was washing dishes when she heard a knock at the kitchen door. When she turned on the porch light, all she saw were feet and elbows as the person scurried for the brush, hollering in Spanish, Apague la luz (cut out the light).

My wife asked, Quien es? (Who is it?). Gustavo came the reply.

She cut off the outside light, and he slowly approached the door again. He removed his hat and told her that he needed to contact me, so she sat him down at the kitchen table, poured him some coffee, and called the station. I asked her what he had with him, and she said just a small paper sack.

So there’s the informant sitting at my table with eight ounces of heroin in a paper sack, drinking coffee, while the Customs agents were messing around somewhere. SPA Lee and I, along with the agent in charge of Customs, had a long talk about it the next day. Anyway, they made the delivery, the dopers were arrested, and Gustavo made it back home, living to help another day.

Rio Grande City, Texas

Rio Grande City, Texas, was unique in several ways. As I said before, only smugglers and politicians lived there. Now I was joking of course, but just barely. In the 1968 election for president, there were over six thousand votes cast in Starr County. Out of the six thousand votes, there were only twenty Republican votes cast. One man said he didn’t know we had that many Border Patrol agents stationed in Rio Grande City. I told him there were only seven of us and, along with our wives, made fourteen. To this day, I don’t know where the other six votes came from.

I remember when the Democratic Party split up just before I left. You could see bumper stickers with the Old Party or the New Party. Then a little later, more showed up with the New, New Party. Then still more with the New, New, New Party. You get the idea.

There was one old gentleman who was born and raised in Starr County, but spoke no English. After spending the day in Miguel Aleman, Mexico, he drove into the US at the Roma, Texas, port of entry. A new immigration inspector was on duty and asked the old gentleman in Spanish, Of what country are you a citizen? The old man thought for a minute, then stated, "Rio Grande