Instead of leaving town on the San Antonio highway as we anticipated, the El Camino made a sudden turn into the parking lot of a large shopping center. The driver parked near the storefronts, and I passed him, taking a place near an exit about 100 yards away. Sessions took a position on the far side of the lot.

We waited for about two hours. The suspect sat in his pickup. Was a delivery to be made in a crowded parking lot?

As dusk approached, I told Dobe, "If he's loaded or is going to pick up the load down the road toward San Antonio, he'll leave here and go right down the freeway. It'll be hell trying to tail him in the dark in all that traffic."

At that moment, the suspect got out of his vehicle, locked it, and entered a drugstore.

Without a word, Dobe removed his hat, left my car, and walked briskly across the parking lot to the El Camino. I could barely see him in the lengthening shadows as he pulled his gun and used it to smash the left rear taillight of the black pickup. He returned circuitously to my car, grinning as he got in.

The driver of the El Camino left the store, looking carefully around the parking lot. After a moment's delay, he got in his truck and drove rapidly from the lot. As we followed, he entered the San Antonio freeway and headed north, staying barely within the 70-mile-per-hour speed limit. Sessions was on our bumper, and I held back, letting the suspect increase the distance between us to about a quarter of a mile.

Where the red plastic of the broken taillight had been, the white bulb glared like a lighthouse beacon. We could have picked him out in traffic if he'd been a mile ahead of us. I grinned and slapped Dobe's knobby knee.

"Do you think he's going to meet somebody, Dobe, or is he already loaded?" I asked.

His eyes never left the broken taillight as he replied, "I'm bettin' he's already loaded. How long you gonna follow him before we see?"

"Let's take him out 25 miles or so. If he hasn't met someone by then, we'll grab him."

We raced through the night for another 30 minutes, guided by the bright light. Then I radioed Sessions, "Let's take him. I'll come in from the side; you stay close on his tail."

Pulling up beside the pickup, I hit the siren as Dobe plugged the portable flashing red light into the cigarette lighter and signaled the driver to stop. As the suspect brought the El Camino to a halt, Dobe and I leaped out of the car, pistols in hand.

"Police! Gitcher hands up!" shouted the old rancher, pointing his .45 at the startled suspect. The man took one look at the cowboy-hatted, grizzled figure and did as he was told. We got him out, then spread-eagled and searched him. He was unarmed. Sessions cuffed his hands behind his back, and we began to check out the El Camino.

It was loaded and then some. A wall of plastic-wrapped kilo bricks of marijuana was stacked behind the seat and came level to the top of it. A brightly colored blanket concealed the contraband from outside view. Using a Philips screwdriver, we opened the compartments in the bed, and they were also neatly filled with "keys" of the illicit weed. When we weighed the catch, we would find we'd captured 250 kilograms--more than 500 pounds--of marijuana.