One Step Over the Border by Stephen Bly

hard because they’re smart, or because they’re dumb?”
    “I don’t exactly get your drift, Laramie.”
    “Ants do what they’re programmed to do and they do it well. But they don’t stop and scratch their little heads and say, ‘This
     just isn’t right.’ No ant contemplates his own destiny or how he fits into the grand scheme of history and the universe. They
     follow their genetic code even to their own demise.”
    “Is this biological discussion leadin’ somewhere?”
    Laramie circled his arm to the north. “It’s leading to the Rio Grande.”
    Hap rubbed a cramp out of his shoulder. “You figure we’re just following our genetic cowboy code? You think we’re headed to
     our own demise?” Hap patted his scabbard. “You reckon we ought to pull the carbines out?”
    “That makes it seem like we know what we’re doing. I think we’d better stick to the dumb, innocent routine.” Laramie nodded
     toward the river. “That must be Greene’s flashlight.”
    “It was either that or a cigarette lighter, but we haven’t see a livin’ soul since we left that cantina. It must have been
     Greene.”
    Grass-filled during the day, the cows moved slowly, as if looking for bedding ground. Laramie and Hap picked up the pace.
     The smooth saddle leather fit them like their old Wranglers. Even the jingle of their spurs fell silent in respect for the
     night’s quiet.
    Within a few minutes they reached the dirt roadway that paralleled the river and boundaried the banks of the Rio Grande.
    “Do you see Greene anywhere?” Laramie asked.
    “No, but I felt a twinge in my genetic code.”
    At the first gunshot, they dove at their scabbards. But when the headlights of three pickups triangulated their position,
     they threw up their hands instead.
    “Hold it, compadres, we ain’t lookin’ for a fight,” Hap called out.
    Four carbine-toting Mexican men hiked into the headlights from the east, three more from the west.
    A hatless man in a three-piece suit without a tie laid his gun over his shoulder. “Stealing cattle is against the law, no
     matter what side of the border you’re on.” The spokesman’s English was good, with a hint of accent.
    “Yes sir, we’ll agree with that.” Hap tried to make out the man’s face. “We had a few shorthorns stray across the river. We
     wanted to take them home so they wouldn’t eat your pasture.”
    “These are Mexican cows,” the stocky man insisted.
    “We can see that now that you have the car lights on,” Laramie said.
    “Señors, we shoot cattle rustlers over here,” a thin, carbine-toting man with a New York Yankees baseball cap announced.
    “We’re new to south Texas,” Laramie explained. “We were told that any cattle that strayed across the border should be gathered
     up and brought home. Don’t you ride over to Texas and bring your cows back? We thought it worked both ways.”
    “I don’t steal another man’s cattle,” the man in the suit replied.
    A long discussion in Spanish ensued. Hap surveyed the river for a sign of Greene. He lowered his hands slowly, then walked
     his fingers closer to the scabbard of his Winchester.
    The man in the suit waved his gun like a professor making a point to the freshman class. “We have two options. Either we shoot
     you as rustlers or we take you to town and throw you in jail.”
    Laramie rubbed his beard. “Hap, does it surprise you that the boss is nowhere to be seen?”
    “Hope he’s got a good Mexican attorney.”
    “You working for someone else?” the hatless man asked.
    “Yes, sir. We were tryin’ to track his cattle across the river and thought these belonged to him,” Hap insisted. “Laramie,
     show him the list of brands we were sent to fetch.”
    Laramie reached in his damp shirt pocket, but the wet note tore as he yanked it out.
    The man in the suit pointed to the cattle that had already begun to bed down. “Señors, that is my family brand.”
    Laramie tossed the remnants of the note