Late November, 1969
Dad and Capt. Jack and I were on the Waldrop Ranch in Val Verde County, right on the U.S./Mexico border. Jack and I were standing on the tailgate of the Jeepster Commando, with our rifles laying on a thin mattress secured to the roof. Antonio was driving and Dad was riding shotgun.
We were parallelling Sycamore Creek, when I saw movement near a clump of brush on the edge of the dry riverbed, some 350 yards away. I knocked on the jeep roof, and Antonio killed the motor in gear.
Squinting through the 4X Leupold, I could count five...no, six of 'em. With a flush of embarrassment, I pulled up the rifle when I realized I was pointing the six millimeter at a family, headed north.
Jack dismounted and trained his old binoculars on the band.
"Looks like three men and three women...one of the women might be a little girl."
"Are they any threat, Jack?" Dad asked.
"Naw. They're headed in country, looking for work. Every couple of years they break into the house, when we're not there. They'll walk right past the booze and the rifles, and take a blanket or canned goods. Never bother anything else."
Antonio watched the little group melt into the brush. His face was expressionless, and his eyes were flat and black.
"Su familia, posible?" I asked. He turned and smiled, and threw a brown arm around my 16 year old frame.
"Siempre, Ricardo. Siempre."