The gravity of the situation is exemplified by the case of one Eloy Múzquiz, citizen of Zacatecas, 850 miles to the south. Thirty-one years old, perpetually smiling, and apparently a good citizen whether in Mexico or the United States, he leaves his home in Zacatecas every winter about the tenth of February, travels by bus to Ciudad Juárez, crosses the Rio Grande illegally, either evades me or is captured by me. If I catch him, I send him back to Mexico, and that afternoon he recrosses the river and eludes me. He hops a freight, heads east to where I do not know, works in Texas till the fifteenth of December, when he reappears in El Paso heading south. Since he is then leaving the States, we let him go. He returns by bus to his home in Zacatecas, plays with his sons, gets his wife pregnant once more, and on the twelfth of February is back in Ciudad Juárez trying to break through our lines. He always succeeds, and just before Christmas we see him with that perpetual smile, walking briskly along and wishing us a Merry Christmas as he heads home. Eloy Múzquiz is our perpetual problem.
One other thing. I should like to withdraw my application for reassignment to the Vermont-Canada border. I have now learned colloquial Spanish and feel a growing affection for El Paso and its problems. I would like to continue my duty on the Texas-Mexico border.
He was accurate in every statement he made about Múzquiz, but there were a few crucial facts which the persistent Mexican worker had succeeded in keeping hidden. He did smile all the time, even when captured at the railway yards, and he was a good citizen in both his countries. He did go home each Christmas to be with his family, and he judged his visit successful if he left his wife pregnant; his daughter and two sons were each born in September. He did invariably move east by hopping a Southern Pacific freight, and he did reappear in El Paso about the fifteenth of December, each year with a somewhat larger roll of American fifty-dollar bills, which he would deliver to his wife in Zacatecas. It was the long period from 12 February to 15 December that remained a blank in Ben Talbot’s records.
In 1961, for example, Múzquiz came north to Ciudad Juárez on schedule, and as always he went to a Mexican grocery, where he filled his small canvas backpack with the staples required for the trip northeast: two small cans of sardines, six limes, four cans of apricots with lots of juice, two very important cans of refried beans, and a large bag of the one essential for an excursion into the United States, pinole, a mixture of parched corn, roasted peanuts and brown sugar, all ground to the finest possible texture. When mixed with water it produced a life-sustaining beverage, but it could also be eaten dry, and then it was more tasty than candy. As Eloy told the woman shopkeeper: Tour pinches of pinole keeps you moving for a whole day. A bag like this? It could carry me to Canada.’
With all items packed according to what he had learned on seven previous trips, he left the store casually at about one in the afternoon, walked down to the dry riverbed, watched for an appropriate time when the immigration officers were occupied with three Mexicans they had caught, and slipped into the United States. Working his way cautiously eastward, he came upon the familiar freight yards of the Southern Pacific, where he hid beside a line of stationary boxcars, peeking out to watch the freight engines shunt long lines of laden boxcars before they started on the cross-Texas trip to San Antonio and on to Houston.
That was the train he would be catching within a few hours, and during the waiting period he reminded himself of safety precautions he had accumulated on various trips: Remember, if it should rain in the next hour, don’t try. Let the train ride off without you. That was how Elizondo lost his legs, slipping on mud. Remember, if it should be rocky where you make your jump, let the train go. That’s how Gutierrez died, tripping and falling under the wheels. Remember, keep your hands clear of the coupling. That’s how Cortinas lost his left hand, when the engines stopped suddenly. And remember, if the car you land in has cargo that can shift, get out, even if you have to jump. When the marble blocks shifted sideways they crushed Alarcón, didn’t they? And when that cargo of grain broke loose it smothered Salcedo, didn’t it?
On the freight trains east, death was a constant companion, and it was prudent to wedge a block in the sliding doors to keep them from slamming irrevocably shut; once forty were trapped in a freight car which had to lay over in a blinding Texas blizzard; all froze to death. In another instance, thirty-seven died from the stifling heat, which reached one hundred and forty degrees.
At two-ten on this February day, Eloy Múzquiz watched the freight forming with the greatest concentration, calculating his line of approach and trying to identify some car in which it would be relatively safe to ride. At two-twenty he adjusted his bundle, grasping the strings at the bottom and securing them about his waist so that his groceries would not bounce about as he ran. At two-twenty-five the engineer sounded his whistle, and the first straining of the heavy wheels occurred.
As long as the train remained stationary, the wetbacks dared not board, since the Border Patrol would pick them off, but once the boxcars started forward, there would be a general rush in which so many Mexicans dashed for the train, the guards had no chance to intercept everyone. Now as the train lurched forward in sudden jolts, Eloy and some seventy other men—looking like a horde of ants rushing toward some fallen morsel—made a wild dash for the boxcars and the metal framework under them. Múzquiz, easily in the lead, was about to reach the cars when the tall, thin figure of Ben Talbot stepped out from behind his own hiding place to intercept him and two others.
There were two rules in the El Paso game: it was widely known that American officers would not treat their captives brutally, and it was understood that no Mexican fugitive would strike or fire at an immigration officer. It was a relentless struggle, carried on through all the hours of a day, but it was honorable, and now when Talbot grabbed the three Mexicans, it was as if they had been playing a friendly game of touch football. They stopped trying to run, Talbot said ‘Okay, compadres,’ and Eloy looked up at him, smiled as if they were brothers, and walked calmly into captivity.
He was led to a clearing station, documented for the eighth time, and returned once more to Ciudad Juárez, where without even changing stride he walked to the river, crept across when no one was patrolling, made his way to the railroad yards, and headed for the next freight, which hauled more than a hundred and fifty boxcars. With customary skill, his bundle tied close to his back, he sped across the yard, calculated his leap, and made his way into a boxcar filled with freight that was safely lashed down.
The Border Patrol in El Paso always assumed that Múzquiz remained aboard the train to San Antonio, losing himself in that growing metropolis where Spanish-speaking citizens were commonplace, and Officer Talbot had sent inquiries to that city, asking immigration people there to be on the lookout for Eloy, but Múzquiz was too clever to act in so predictable a manner.
When the freight train stopped for water in Fort Stockton, 245 miles to the east, he remained hidden for twenty minutes, knowing that La Migra—the immigration people—would be chasing the men who jumped off right away. When this did happen, with him watching the frantic game from a peephole, he casually dropped down from the boxcar and sauntered across the yard to a rusted Ford station wagon that had stood beside a deserted road for years. Opening the creaking door carefully lest it fall off, he crept inside, pulled the door shut behind him, and went to sleep, the fourth time in four years he had done this.
At dusk, with the train long gone for its destination in Houston, Eloy started walking up the familiar road to Monahans, Odessa, Midland and Lubbock. He covered many of the two hundred and twenty-three miles on foot, caught a few hitches, turned down job offers from two different ranchers, and paid American dollars for the bus ticket which carried him from Midland to Lubbock; at the station in the former city a well-dressed woman asked if he needed work and was obviously disappointed when he said no.
As he neared Lubbock on its unbelievably flat plain his heart expanded, for now he was on land he knew and loved. Nodding to several acq
uaintances in the bus station, he assured them that when summer came he would again tend their lawns, but then he started walking west on Highway 114, and before long a rancher who recognized him carried him on to Levelland, where, with his usual broad smile, he bade the man goodbye and headed for the customary cotton gin, where he reported to the foreman of the idle plant: ‘I’m back.’
‘Where you working till we start our run?’
‘Mr. Hockaday, he asked.’
‘Good man. But come August first, we want you here.’
‘I’ll be here.’
That year he had fourteen different jobs. Everyone he met sought his help, for he was known throughout the community as reliable, congenial and the father of three children down in Zacatecas to whom he sent nine-tenths of his wages. He did yard work; one woman of considerable wealth arranged for him to get a driver’s license, strictly illegal, so that he could chauffeur her about; he worked at stores cleaning up after midnight; and he did occasional baby-sitting for young couples.
By 1968, Múzquiz had become a fixture at a local cotton gin, supervising the machinery, and as December approached he went to see the owner of the installation. Before he had spoken six words he broke into tears. When the owner asked in Spanish what the matter was, Eloy handed him a letter from his oldest boy: Señora Múzquiz, Eloy’s stalwart wife who had run their family without a man, had died, leaving the three children motherless.
‘Dear trusted friend, this is a tragedy. My heart goes out to you.’
‘Señor, if I bring my children north with me, could you find them work?’
‘How would you get them here?’
‘I get here, don’t I? Señor, I love Lubbock. I love Texas. This is my home now.’
‘Any rancher in Texas would want a man like you. If they’re good children …’
‘They are. Their mother saw to that.’
Suddenly it was the owner who was sniffling: ‘We’ll find a place. Here’s some money for your trip.’
As Eloy stepped off the bus in El Paso he found Ben Talbot waiting for him and he supposed that he was going to be arrested, and the tall officer who spoke the peculiar Spanish took him by the arm, led him to a bar, and said, over Dr. Peppers: ‘Eloy, the big man has given me hell.
Says I let you come in and out of the country as if you owned it. He wants you arrested.’
‘General Talbot’—Múzquiz called every officer General, in either Mexico or Texas, for he had learned that such an error produced few reprisals —‘you must not arrest me! My wife has died.’
After Talbot studied the sweat-stained letter, he blew his nose and delivered his warning: ‘Eloy, go back to Zacatecas. Take care of your children. And don’t come up this way again. Because next time I catch you, the big boss insists, you go to jail.’
‘But I must come back, General Talbot. And I must bring my children.’
‘Damnit, Eloy. There is no way you can sneak past us with three kids. You’ll be caught, and into the calaboose you go. Then what will happen to your children?’
‘General Talbot, we must come back. We are needed.’
That was the haunting phrase which put this border problem into perspective. The Mexicans who were streaming across in such uncounted numbers were mostly illiterate and they showed no inclination toward becoming Americanized, as immigrants from Europe had done in the early 1900s; instead, they clung to their Spanish language and their Mexican ways, and there were fifty other things wrong with them, but they were needed. They were needed by ranchers who could not otherwise find cowboys and by young mothers who could not find helpers. They were needed in restaurants and hotels and shops and in almost every service activity engaged in by the people of Texas. They were desperately needed, and as long as this was true, they would be enticed over the border by the millions.
As 12 February 1969 approached, Border Patrol Officer Talbot, who now wore cowboy boots, a large hat and a bolo tie when off duty, and could scarcely remember when he had been a Vermonter, realized that his old friend and nemesis Eloy Múzquiz was due to make his appearance in Ciudad Juárez in preparation for his dash to paradise, this time with three children in tow, so he telephoned a Mexican officer in Juárez with whom he had established good relations, and asked: ‘You see a man about forty years old with three kids buying groceries for a dash across?’
‘No, but I’ll keep watch,’ and after a while the Mexican called back: ‘Yep. Buying sardines, canned refried beans, canned fruit juices and a big bag of pinole.’
‘Let me know when he crosses.’
As if obedient to some inner schedule, one which had worked in the past, at about one in the afternoon Eloy led his three children across the dry river and eastward toward the freight yards. From a distance Talbot, marking their progress through field glasses, saw the father instruct his children as to how they must run to leap aboard the moving freight. He saw the engine getting up steam, the surreptitious movement of illegals edging toward the still-motionless boxcars, and he could feel the tension.
Then, to his dismay —almost his horror—he saw that his fellow officer Dan Carlisle had spotted Eloy and his children and was placing himself in position to nab them within the next few minutes. Without hesitation he activated his walkie-talkie: ‘Three-oh-three! Two-oh-two calling. I’m on to a crowd that might prove difficult.’
‘Three-oh-three speaking. Cannot help. Following my own crowd.’ ‘Could be I’ll need help.’
‘You want me to come over?’
‘You’d better.’ With relief he saw Carlisle stop his tracking of the Múzquiz family and start west: When he reaches here I’ll think of some explanation.
With his glasses he watched the engineer climb aboard the diesel, saw the trainmen wigwag their signals, and studied carefully the long line of boxcars as it strained to get started. Wheels spun; the engines coughed; the cars started to inch forward. Another spin, then all the wheels seemed to catch at the same instant, and the long train began to pick up speed.
Almost trembling, he watched as Múzquiz started his three children for the boxcars, urging them forward. Christ in heaven, Talbot prayed, don’t let them slip. And he watched with strange satisfaction as the two boys leaped for the train, grasping the proper handholds.
Now the little girl, twelve years old, had to make the flying leap, and Talbot watched, teeth clenched, as her father spurred her on, her long dress flapping in the February sunlight. ‘Faster, kid!’ Talbot cried under his breath, and he sighed with relief when he saw Eloy lift her and almost throw her toward the train, where her brothers dragged her to safety. ‘Okay, Múzquiz!’
He gasped, for at this moment one of the many scrambling wetbacks slipped and fell toward the implacable wheels, which had destroyed so many in such situations. Was it Múzquiz? Talbot saw the sliding man frantically clutch at rocks, until with bleeding fingers he caught one that saved him, and there he lay as the train moved past, its wheels turning always faster.
Eloy, leaping over the fallen man, grabbed the handholds, swung himself into the boxcar, and disappeared.
At the Fort Stockton stop Múzquiz explained to his children why they must wait till the first frenzied action dissipated, then quietly he led them to the rusted Ford station wagon that still stood beside the road. In it they slept for some hours, side by side, waking when it was time to head cautiously for Midland, where they caught the bus to Lubbock.
When they reached Levelland they were greeted with warmth and even embraces, for many families needed their help. When they were safe in the two-room shack which the plantation owner provided, Múzquiz told his children: ‘This is our home now. We will never leave.’
If Ben Talbot developed a feeling of brotherhood toward Eloy Múzquiz because of the latter’s decency and courage, he knew another Mexican for whom he felt only loathing, and this slimy operator preoccupied his attention, both when Talbot was on the job or resting beside the swimming pool at the house he and his wife, María Luz, had built at the edge
of El Paso. His notes on this infamous man explained why he despised him:
El Lobo, real name unknown. Birthplace unknown. Frequents the cantina El Azteca. About thirty-two, slight, neatly trimmed mustache, toothpick in corner of mouth. Always present when some deal is being engineered. Never present when trouble starts. Stays in Ciudad Juárez mostly, but is willing to come boldly into El Paso when business requires it. Occupation: coyote. Smuggles groups of wetbacks to rendezvous in the desert. Collects his fee and often deserts them.
1. Locked 63 wetbacks into a closed truck with space for 16 at most. Drove across desert to Van Horn in blazing heat. More than 20 died.
2. Dropped 17 wetbacks into the small opening of a tank car that had been carrying gasoline, closed the hatch at El Paso yards. All dead when hatch opened at Fort Stockton.
3. Packed 22 into a Chevrolet, plus two locked in the trunk. In order to protect springs on car, wedged wooden posts between them and body. Friction from driving set wood on fire. He ran from car, but did not stop to open trunk. Two men incinerated.
4. On at least two occasions led groups of girls who wanted to be waitresses across the desert and sold them to the men from Oklahoma City.
Talbot vowed that he would catch this evil man during some foray north of the river, but El Lobo was so clever and self-protective that he could not be trapped, and often Talbot had to watch with disgust as the slim, tricky fellow came boldly into El Paso on the maternity gambit, leading some pregnant peasant girl to Thomason General Hospital, and charging her a fee for the service. Since El Lobo broke no law during such missions, and since the deaths listed on his dossier could not be proved against him, he moved with impunity, but events were about to unfold in a dusty little town well south of the border which would place him in real jeopardy.