The other day I was driving Old Highway 80.  Just past Bankhead Springs I saw one of the Border Patrol division heads talking to one of the agents. Their conservation looked informal so I stopped to join them.

BP TRUCK O SKYMy brothers and I have a rental on our property.  It’s down the road and close to the border. We had revamped it and were trying to rent it out. A flyer with pictures had been posted in the local Border Patrol office, but no interest had been shown.

With this in mind I stopped to see if there was a problem.


“Hi Mike,” I won’t give out his real name.  “Busy?” I asked.

“Real quiet.”

“Guess that’s just for the moment.”

“Never know what’s over the hill,” he said.

“Ya know, we got a rental on the property.”

He looked at me and smiled. “How cum no takers?”

“That’s it,” I said. “Nice and clean, sits under some big live oaks.”

“Too close to work,” he said.

“You mean the border?”

He nodded.

“All our folks have families.”

I was beginning to understand.

“If the bad guys knew an agent had his family on the line, they might threaten his wife and kids.”

No matter where an agent works, he or she has to look over their shoulder. It’s hard work and sometimes dangerous.

My name’s Wally Runnels and I write Border Pulp. 

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