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onto the porch, he shouted, “Federal officer; I need help!”

     

5
    THE DOGS OF NIGHT

     

     
    The house was small, it was dark, and it was silent. Jim hammered on the door. “Federal officer!” He prepared to break it down.
    Lights came on inside, then on poles in the pasture that surrounded the house. In those lights he saw figures. Simple uniforms, perhaps official Mexican, perhaps not. Frozen now, calculating the changed odds.
    Then the voice of the man in the house, a gravelly shout: “Awright, boys, time to go on home. My dogs is hungry tonight.”
    The man connected to the voice then came onto the porch, and Jim recognized him. He’d been riding horseback down the highway near here as Jim had driven past. It was the same tattered, ropelike old man, unmistakable. With him came a pack of dogs as lean and ornery looking as their master.
    At the far edge of the light, a gun chinked. The Kalashnikov had been reloaded, was now being cocked.
    “Watch out.”
    “Boys— take ’em !”
    A dozen snarling, eager dogs swarmed off into the dark. The Kalashnikov chattered wildly, the flashes arcing in a crazy motion. Then there was a shattering blast beside Jim’s head and he thought he’d been hit—but a fountain of sparks spewed away into the night. What had happened was that the old man had fired a shotgun, a big one. Then again, whoom !
    The old man turned to him, gave him the meanest, most toothless, most dangerous-looking grin he’d seen since Afghanistan. “Jus’ tryin’ to warn ’em off ’fore they get et.”
    From off in the dark came the barking of the dogs, faint screams, growling, then louder screams that grew quickly frantic.
    “Well, they gettin’ et,” the old man said. “Them dogs is gonna go blood on me, Vas-kez don’t stop his invadin’.” He dropped down into an ancient steel lawn chair that guarded the porch. “Gawddamn ticker, it gets goin’, it don’t stop. Gonna be the death’a me, of course. Now, what we got here?”
    “I’m a federal officer—”
    “Oh, how surprising. I’d never have thought that of a feller in a Sunday go-to-meetin’ suit, getting chased through the damn brasada in the middle of the night.”
    “Who is Vasquez?”
    “Emilio Vas-kez, local border control officer, Mex side. Moves flesh. He works closely with our border boys. Money changes hands.”
    “Where can I find this man?”
    “In his office in Piedras Negras, be my guess. Me, I never cross. Be a one-way trip.”
    Piedras Negras, the Place of Black Stones, the Mexican city across the Rio Grande from Eagle Pass.
    “You say that Customs and Borders know Mr. Vasquez?”
    The old guy gave Jim a look that was a lot more careful than he had expected to see. “Now, you listen up, Mr. Federal Officer. This is Texas, here. It’s another country, see. You got your border cops and whatnot, but that’s only in the towns. Out here, there’s another law, old-time Texas law.” He rose from the chair, cupped his hands over his mouth, and called, “Boy-eees! C’mon, you devils! Boy-eeees! ” Then he looked at Jim, eyes twinkling. “Won’t need to feed ’em for a week, best guess.” He stared off into the dark. “Might be one or two of those fellers still out there though. They must want you bad, Federal Officer.”
    “Let’s go inside,” Jim said. “I need to make a call.”
    As they entered the dark house, the old man turned on a floor lamp.
    “Kill that!”
    “Vas-kez ain’t gonna come up here, not when the dogs’re out.”
    “For my sake.” He picked up the phone—and got silence. “Does this need to be turned on?”
    “It’s a phone.” The old man took it, listened. Cursing under his breath, he returned to the porch. “Vas-kez, you damn cur, you cut my line again! I’m comin’ over there, fella, and I’m goin’ huntin! I know where you live, goddamn you!”
    The dogs returned, quick shapes speeding under the thin light from the light poles. Jim stood in the shadows