Bill Borches and Bryan Ford in parade on mustangs

"Sweat dripping down my face, my uniform soaked, I kneel under a mesquite tree on a humid South Texas afternoon.  The sun is setting and although it's getting dark, no cool breeze relieves the heavy air.  Giant thunder heads line the far horizon. They cause the heavy humidity now but I know they soon will bring relief and heavy rains.  

Right now though, I am kneeling near a path.  A sensor a mile or so up the trail has alerted me that there are several people coming my way; well unless it turns out to be a herd of cows.  

I have backup, but he's a half hour away and by the time he gets here I will either have the aliens in custody or have informed him why not...

As the shadows lengthen, I hear movement, a kicking of rocks way up the trail.  My heart picks up its pace in anticipation.  How many will there be?  Will they just be walkers or will they have large bags of marijuana on their backs.  

A Border Patrol Agent never knows until he encounters his quarry.  Will I need my gun or will they, after the initial surprise, be completely cooperative, even joking about the fact that tomorrow is another day and...another opportunity to make past the Border Patrol's thin green line.  Most are like this, easy going, accepting their fate as just a minor setback on a long journey but there are a few that are much more dangerous.

I remember some of the agents that have died since my career started.  I remember Jeff Barr, who worked the Eagle Pass Station only an hour away from my own. A family man with young children who loved the job. He answered a sensor, encountering four drug mules; fleeing to get away, one turns just before the river and shoots, the bullet hitting Jeff in the shoulder except it ricocheted downward to his heart...

At my feet I see movement, a large tarantula is moving to higher ground in anticipation of the coming rains.  His movement attracts my eyes and I can't look away as his path will come only a few inches away from me.  He walks like he's arthritic, his joints are stiff, but I know he senses me, trying to tell if I am prey or an enemy. He stops only a few inches from my knee.  I am ready to jump but I have to remain still.  Finally he walks robotically by me, and disappears behind a bush.

I want to move to another location as the idea of the spider climbing up my pant leg causes a chill to go up my spine.  But I can't move.  They should be here in just a couple of minutes. 

I can't hear movement anymore but I know they'll come this way. They always do.  I just have to be patient. 

I strain my eyes to see into the coming darkness; to see the ghostly shadows of people walking.  My mouth is slightly open and I listen intently.  I hear more movement but it's coming from a animal in the brush behind me-at least I hope it is.  

I remember my firearms instructor at the academy, Paul Conover, telling of his shooting; of coming around a corner and there was a man sitting with a .30 caliber rifle, waiting.  He recalls that he saw the flames shoot from the rifle and knew he had been hit as the numbing of the bullet knocks him to the ground.  He returns fire and lives but only after taking more rounds into his body.  Then, the real story of his survival ensues.  It's a story that still sends chills down my spine as I think of it

My pistol is in my hand beside my side.  I doubt I will need it but I am not so complacent to not prepare somewhat.  

Still no sounds. They should be here by now. Finally I see movement coming down the trail.  I watch closely for guns.  I watch the way they walk single file, becoming larger and larger as their surprising speed eats up the distance more quickly than one would think. 

Four men.  I hear the soft singing of a Spanish song coming from the group.  Common.  My heart slows a bit as I hope these are just your average walkers.  Finally, they are close and I can see from their faces that they are just peasants.  Coming to better their lives.  I look closely at their hands and can't see anything.  No rifles but maybe a knife which can be just as deadly.

"Buenos Tardes muchachos"  I say in greeting trying to sound calm as if we had arranged this meeting.  I say this but at the same time I am watching to see how they react.  Will one or two bolt and run?  Have I misjudged them and will they fight me?  Do they have a hidden weapon I can't see?  All of these thoughts have crossed my mind so many times they are now natural.

Of course they are startled by my greeting, stiffening as their minds try to comprehend what has just happened. After only a few seconds a smile crosses the front man's face.  He returns my greeting and add that their luck isn't good.  

I say in Spanish "but tomorrow is another day"  which brings a smile across all of their faces as they know that this is just a monopoly game and they are being sent back to GO to restart their journey tomorrow...

Each of these men is well over thirty years old.  They are dressed poorly and one has a noticeable limp.  I am confident they are not a threat but yet I keep my guard up.  I don't want to be a victim...

I hold no contempt for these men.  They are doing what any of us would do in their situation.  They are risking their lives, walking dozens of miles through inhospitable country, to earn enough money to send home to their families.

These four like hundreds of others that were apprehended in the same area, hold no real grievances against me.  They know I have a job to do.  They know it's a game..."