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Agua Poquita Ranch, Benavides, TX (2026)

The Agua Poquita Ranch is a portion of an original Mexican land grant of 26,745 acres awarded to a gentleman by the name of Santos Flores in 1836. Some of the structures still standing at the existing ranch compound were constructed circa 1850 as a stagecoach stop between San Antonio and Mier, Mexico. The ranch was acquired by M. in the 1930's and has been in the Miller family ever since. The ranc

h operates several oil and gas properties as well as the original Brahman cattle herd. The ranch is also the source of many fond memories of friends an family alike. We hope you enjoy this page and share some memories of your own!
- The Miller Family

03/04/2024

Back in the 1970s Alan McDaniel came to South Texas by way of Morgan City, Louisiana. He was in his twenties and had no way of knowing it, but his stay would last a lifetime. McDaniel stood tall with a lean and frisky physique that reminded you of an anxious foal kicking up its hind quarters. He proved to be strong too, the equal of a yearling bull. The future of his choosing lay before him. McDaniel would come to sink roots deep in the brush country.

He settled into his late uncle's house on the family's ranch holdings a few miles south of Benavides, Texas. Not one to idle lazily in the shade, he would never think of letting time pass without something to show for it. McDaniel signed on as a laborer with his neighbor farther south on the highway, the Agua Poquita Ranch. Run by the Miller family, it was a big spread always calling for hands and the young man needed the work. Cash money was not hanging from the limbs of trees like so many strings of mesquite beans. The ranch signed him on. It so happened that he had a blood connection to the Miller operation. His mother was niece to the wife of M.M. Miller, Jr., one of the ranch owners.

The work was tough, as one could imagine. McDaniel learned his responsibilities quickly, never shrinking from a task or letting a learning opportunity escape him. There was much in the way of practical knowledge he could pick from the more experienced hands. Their hard-earned wisdom and skill would not escape him. In no time he settled into the day-to-day practices of the Agua Poquita. The older and more seasoned ranch crew observed that the Louisiana transplant never tired. His stamina was second to none. The young fellow always smiled and offered a steady stream of good conversation. Everyone liked him.

One afternoon, some of the hands busied themselves in El Coyote pasture. Over a hundred acres of recently baled buffelgrass dotted one of its fields. At a walking pace pounded by a hot sun, the crew trailed an old hay wagon towed by the battered ranch GMC, a rusting blue four-wheel-drive bucket of bolts lumbering along on worn tires. Minus its doors, it was not fit for the highway, but the pulling power of its 305 V6 made it a valuable piece of equipment for the Agua Poquita. The clanky combo worked up billows of dust mixed with itchy flecks of hay. The irritating billow covered everything and everyone with a fine grit mixed with the summer heat. No quicker was the plume blown clear by the hot breeze that a new cloud was kicked up by the pickup and trailer. The platform worked its way between long rows of bales ending at the distant fence line. The moving flatbed was the collection point for a growing stack of interlocking bales. Steadily, the crew worked to fetch bales bound tightly with wire as taunt as guitar strings. In a quick series of motions, gloved hands would grab the wire. Strong shoulders and arms je**ed the bale chest high with an upward push from the knee while swinging the bale up, then releasing it, letting it take brief flight to the trailer. A sweaty pair of waiting ranch hands stacked them on the flatbed in an interlocking pattern, layer by layer, building it tight and high. When the trailer reached its limit, the moving operation steered toward the large hay shed near El Coyote corral for unloading and stacking under the big shed with the corrugated steel roof. From a distance the operation looked like a string of army ants busy carrying tiny bits of leaves to their hole.

McDaniel proved to be an able ranch hand. He tugged, lifted and tossed up bales averaging ninety pounds onto the platform as though they weighed no more than loaves of bread. The man was strong. One time, as the GMC pulled its load to the hay shed, one of the guys on the fully stacked trailer jokingly shouted out to McDaniel, "Hey! We need two more." Without hesitating, he flashed his wide grin, turned, and dashed back a hundred feet or so to scoop up a couple of bales and ran them back to the moving trailer as easily as though he were running with a lunch pail in each hand. That man was strong.

McDaniel was a deep thinker, too. Breaking for lunch one day in the shade of big elms down in the creek, the crew took their meals of potted meat, crackers, bean tacos, Fritos, Vienna sausages. They split into two groups; the older ones claimed space at the pickup, while the youngsters sat on the soft cool earth at the base of the elm. Half an hour was the accepted lunch break, but lately, with the days so hot and humid, and the labor so heavy, the break for lunch had grown longer. With muted consent the crew had begun to stretch their lunch to nearly an hour, depending on how much work the day called for.

After their meal, the older of the crew sprawled out on any flat surface: the pickup's bench seat, the tailgate, tool chest, anything off the ground. Ticks and chiggers were plentiful in the summer, especially in creek bottoms where cattle sought shade and water. The men lowered their hats over their eyes and slipped into a restful nap. Songbirds and the wind rustling through the leaves overhead helped lull them to sleep. Other times, the noon newscast on the AM dial provided the background noise.

The more energetic young ones in the crew talked and joked, playing with clods of damp earth from the creek bank. These they tossed at tree trunks, fallen limbs, piles of smooth stones collected by the rush of water that coursed through the creek bottom in the rainy season. McDaniel paused his tossing, taking notice of how the clods of dirt disintegrated on impact. The action interested him.

"What's a word for that?" He asked no one in particular, forming the question as though he was half-talking to himself. We followed his gaze. It pointed to busted clods of dirt making a small growing mound. "A word for what?" One of us under the shade of the elm got curious. We had little interest in searching out descriptive words during a lunch break. McDaniel did have an interest, however. He drew us into his questioning, his line of thinking, his search for that one right word. The group painted an odd picture... ranch hands in search of a verb in the bed of a creek. After much back and forth it was agreed that the clods "fragmented" on impact. That was the word that satisfied McDaniel. It was important to him and worth the effort to think hard about something. We learned a thing or two that day from his example. And then, the lunch break was over.

McDaniel had been in South Texas long enough to understand that he could broaden his horizons if the local Spanish dialect could roll off his tongue. He figured he would be twice the man, and so he set himself to learning "Mexican." Not long into his South Texas sojourn, McDaniel left the employ of the Agua Poquita and began working for himself. His efforts at self-employment ran from trapping feral hogs, honey bee keeping, on to hot shot trucking. For the work he could not do for himself or needed a regular hand, he employed wetbacks. Supply was plentiful in these parts forty years ago. After that, the Spanish came quickly. In a few weeks' time he was rattling off orders to his Mexican crew as though he were a native speaker. It was impressive.

McDaniel's story is a colorful one that warrants a book. A lifetime later Alan McDaniel retired as a school administrator for the Goliad ISD. He had come a long way from Morgan City, Louisiana.

03/25/2023

Little else tasted sweeter or refreshed with more satisfaction on a hot summer day. It was a blend of well water and a ten-pound block of ice Dick Shimer picked up in the morning from Alice before heading out to the ranch in Duval County. There was block ice available in Benavides, Texas, the pueblito north of the ranch. Dick claimed its supply was not always reliable, so he brought it from Alice where there was no question about regularity. From his home there, the drive to the Doghouse took about an hour, but Dick managed it in less and often did. Nothing was more important than ice when working outdoors under the sun. The summer of 1977 gave us a hot one.

The Doghouse often provided the launching point for all work on the 11,500-acre Agua Poquita. The corrugated steel building served as a combination tool shed, lunchroom, and general meeting place for the ranch crew. Resting on blocks, it was a leftover relic of the oilfield days on the ranch. The location drew its water from the nearby windmill... an almost 300-foot-deep well that brought up water so soft it made lathering soap difficult. Rinsing with it left your skin feeling smooth and slippery. It tasted clean, pure and sweet. The crew favored it above all the other offerings from the ten windmills on the ranch. When Dick showed up with his 10-pound block, the waiting cooler received it. No piece of equipment loaded on the work truck could be more needed than those five gallons of icy cold water.

By noon the floating ice block bobbed back and forth in the five-gallon galvanized can. Secured in a mount welded to the pickup's headache rack, the Igloo made a gentle thumping sound. It kept beat with the rocking of the pickup as it rolled along trailing a cloud of fine dust. Not long after passing, a hot breeze dispersed the growing plume into the brush. There it disappeared into the mesquite already powdered from other days and other passings. The sun beat hard on the cab, the dirt road, on the gray brush and especially on us. Air almost too hot to breathe worked our lungs hard. We would not survive the day without the cooler. It was vintage in style and design: lined in and out with galvanized steel, it gave the water a satisfying metallic taste when cold. It could refresh like no other beverage, and never more than when a man labored hot and hard with salty beads of sweat the size of pearls trickling down his face and neck.

The metal cooler was a relic of the 1960s. The ranch operation was not in the practice of purchasing the newest equipment. It was a frugal enterprise. Everything on hand worked day after day until it could no longer be patched, wired together, hammered or jiggled into operation. The Igloo was old and battered but had years to go yet. It kept the water chilled with the best of them. It still sported an all-metal lid with a looped handle. Held upside down, the lid acted as a deep bowl, able to hold maybe three pints of water. We would place that lid below the cooler's spigot and half fill it, taking greedy gulps when we brought it to our lips. Its effect down your parched throat refreshed the body like nothing else. It was fine water. "That ice better last all day." Every swallow produced that thought. Sometimes it did not last, but the long swigs of water were no less satisfying at the end of the day.

Banged up much like the work truck, the can had seen better days, and much like the pickup, it still serviced us well. Because it was not pretty did not mean it could not do its job. There were much nicer ones on the market: durable plastic containers, pounds lighter, dent proof, more colorful, easy to open screw tops, certainly pricey. In time, one would find its way to the Agua Poquita but not in the summer of 1977. A new cooler was years away.

Dick Shimer took vacation later that summer up to Colorado. Gone for a week. The ranch crew did not mind Dick going off to frolic in the pines, but it found itself cut off from the daily supply of 10-pound blocks of ice. In his absence, Dad, ever thrifty, improvised the best he could. He took an empty gallon-sized plastic tub, filled it with the windmill water we favored, and froze it overnight in his kitchen freezer. In the morning he had a solid gallon-sized chunk of ice, but it lacked whatever magic quality the ten-pound block from Alice possessed. The overnight job did not produce the crystal clear quality. This substitute looked cloudy and fractured. The ice water did not taste the same and the crew was glad when he came back from the Rockies.

Dick Shimer, the Igloo, the sweet taste of its water and hot summers at the ranch come to mind every time I see a 10-pound block of ice. Cold ranch water... nothing tastes sweeter.

03/14/2022

The standard practice of pipeline operators is to keep their easements through ranch properties clear of brush and tall grass. It is no different on the Agua Poquita Ranch. The right-of-ways above its buried gas lines require good exposure so telltale signs of leaks or other irregularities are visible to inspection at ground level or from the air. That calls for a tractor operator pulling a rotary cutter at regular intervals through the right-of-ways, the frequency being dictated by the length of dry or wet spells in the region. One easement above a buried eighteen-inch line runs east to west across five miles of the old ranch. A dirt road with crooked ruts more like a pair of cow trails parallels the easement, linking Las Lagunas windmill with its cattle pens and the ranch's namesake creek a mile away.

That creek is the Agua Poquita, a rugged boy's playground with enough peril to keep a ranch kid cautious. The arroyo carves a green leafy gash through the rolling brush country, channeling the runoff from the rare "aguaceros" all the way into the Laguna Salada, an inlet of Baffin Bay fifty miles to the southeast. None of the boys fortunate enough to grow up on the ranch knew this as kids, nor did they care. All that mattered was that the creek was theirs to explore on weekends or long easy summers.

Almost forty years ago after a hot, sweaty, and dust-choking day's work in Las Lagunas cattle pens, longtime ranch employee Salas drove west on the pipeline's easement road where he rolled to a stop along the arroyo's embankment. He had three of his four boys with him, his day's help. "Ven. Quiero que vean algo," he said to them. Even in his advanced years, Salas still entertained a boyish spirit, enough anyway after a day of cattle work for some creek exploration. He wanted to show his boys something in the creek they might appreciate. Once afoot, they dropped down the "barranca" and angled away from the pickup, following the gravelly creek bed a quarter mile shy of the property's north fence line. In a heavily wooded area, dim under the sun filtering softly through the canopy of tall elms and hackberries, was "la noria de buque," as Salas called it, a hand-dug water well of indeterminate age and origin. The exposed rectangular shaft fashioned from large caliche blocks seemed out of place in the creek. Three sides of the remaining "sillar" casing were set into the eroded slope of the arroyo. In its time, the well's caliche blocks would have naturally been below ground level, unseen, but God knows how many years, plus steady erosion, had lazily eaten away at the soft earth. Likely, after several generations the creek had widened to a point where the top of the old well was no longer at the original ground level. The day Salas pointed this out to his boys, several feet of its caliche block shaft were exposed, one entire side having collapsed block by block down the receding bank. The boys explored the ruin with enthusiasm. Remains of a camp fire indicated the old well had been repeatedly used as crude shelter by wetbacks.

Salas explained to the boys that laborers had hand-dug the well and how in his grandfather's day wells such as this one along creeks were a common source of water. What he found odd was that this noria de buque was rectangular and not the more common round construction. He explained how the hole was lined with hand-quarried sillares (caliche blocks). At ground level, walls were probably built up to hold a horizontal log over the well. A rope was then used with an end tied to a bucket and the other to most likely a mule. Salas said that surely there was once a "pila," a storage tank, close by. The boys scrambled up the embankment to ground level to explore for sign, studying the crusty surface carefully. It had been a dry year so much of the ground was bare, but there was no Indiana Jones moment. No pila. No nothing. No sign. The youngest did come across an arrowhead. That was always exciting. It lay among the gravel and flinty rock in a dry gully branching from the creek. Then another of the boys found a second, also in the shallow gully trailing off a hundred yards from the creek. An arrowhead was always an exciting find. Their focus switched from the noria de buque to arrowhead hunting. It was an interesting place on the old Agua Poquita.

03/09/2022

My eyes were first drawn to his belt... cut from thick cowhide, shiny where it rubbed against the loops, and the longest I had ever seen around the girth of a man. Melvin Milton Miller, Jr., my dad's boss on the Agua Poquita Ranch, was a clean shaven fellow with cropped hair back when I first laid eyes on him. An imposing figure. He frightened me a little as a child. The long white beard and shoulder length hair giving him the look of a genial south Texas Santa would not come until much later.

When he reached his sixties, Milton began visiting with Amador Caballero at his Bus Stop store in Benavides, Texas. After a check of the mail at the post office, if the weather was agreeable Milton crossed to the general goods store to pass the time. Amador had a small wooden bench by the exit of his store, only feet from where he reigned at the cash register. Milton would settle himself on the backless seat for a few minutes to perhaps an hour. Comfortably parked, he passed the time chatting with Amador. Sometimes the small town storekeeper would grow busy with responsibilities and the two could pass long stretches without a word between them. In the lull, Milton busied himself watching the customers come and go. Forty-plus years ago Benavides, Texas was a more lively place, a bit busier with the goings-on of its citizens, giving Milton plenty of people-watching opportunity.

Before it burned to the ground one night in the summer of 1998, the Bus Stop served as Benavides's kiosk for dry goods, PVC pipe, books of postage stamps, cashing payroll checks, brushing up on local news, information, and before the days of Amazon, FedEx, and UPS... it was the place to receive packages. You could also catch a Greyhound to Anywhere, USA. What remains of the corner it once occupied across from the post office is an abandoned lot clumped in wild grass with a broken concrete slab and tall weeds fighting for space through its cracks.

In our part of the country, M.M. Miller,Jr. had no match. His snow white hair, full and thick, the cattleman hat, a khaki work shirt, sleeves rolled halfway up the forearms, the wrists thick, a telltale sign of quiet strength, and the baggy trousers with one pant leg partially tucked into a heavy work boot completed the rancher's rig. Then there were his ever-present ci**rs. As a kid, if I happened to be standing within breathing space of his lit cigar, the aroma encouraged me to draw deeper breaths. There was a sweetness in the smoke you could almost taste on your tongue. It was fine to***co... different from the aroma of Dad's ci******es. Better. My older brother Humberto recalled the brand Milton favored, Travis Club. I can still see the color graphic on the cigar box, a large brick structure with a couple of vintage cars parked out front, but the brand name escaped me. Humberto had better recollection for those things than I. He could call up that tidbit quickly when asked decades later.

Dad regularly touched base with Milton in the early mornings on the caliche driveway of the three-bay garage at the ranch house. A cast iron bell hung by the door that led into the hacienda style home from the attached garage. A couple of quick yanks on the clapper produced a ringing so sharp the sound filled the house, penetrating the thick caliche block walls between the bell and the kitchen table eighty feet away where Milton took his coffee. Minutes later, he would amble out in answer to the bell, carrying his work boots, then drop into his chair set by one of the big support posts of the garage housing his Montana blue Coupe de Ville. The heavy posts were hewn from big elms shading the nearby creek, the same harvest of elms used in the construction of the house back around 1940. On the garage floor, between the chair where Milton sat and the support post, rested a heavy steel shoe scrapper modeled after a dachshund. By happy coincidence, the Millers kept a dachshund as the family pet. It was chocolate brown. They had one and later, another. In a recent conversation I asked Milton's youngest, James, about the dachshund. He recalled that the first one answered to Peppy. That little dog loved Milton.

Growing up on the ranch there were countless opportunities to observe M.M. Miller, Jr., both near and far. In summers, Dad often took me to work with him. My job was to stay out of the way, lend a small hand when ordered to, not to stray too far from the area, and watch for rattlers and all other sorts of creepy-crawlies that could bite, pinch, or sting. As kids, it seems we were always in a high state of critter alertness. But rule number one was to always look busy when Milton was about. None of us questioned Dad why that was important, but we would all come to appreciate the advice later.

One day, just south of the Agua Poquita Creek beam bridge on Highway 339, Dad and Andres Garcia were working at the entrance gate closest to the ranch house. Milton stood watch in his regular supervisory role, observing and directing the men. As the work progressed, the job called for a tool or something that was not readily at hand. Milton wasted little time, saying he would fetch it quickly as he turned to move toward his car. The caliche road to the ranch house ran west from the gate, straight as an arrow for a third of a mile, bisecting a buffel grass field. Milton settled behind the steering column of his two-tone Chevy sedan. Tagging along for the short hop, I sat up front too. Milton did not bother to wheel the car around. He shifted into reverse, twisted clockwise in his seat, stretching his right arm across the top of the backrest, gripping it hard to hold the awkward position. The big man gunned the engine, skewed his neck a hard right, focused his eyes past the rear window, and with an assuredness and determination worthy of an Army Ranger, backed up the entire length of the road surprisingly fast. I was both nervous and impressed as I saw Dad, Andres, the gate, and Highway 339 quickly recede with the growing whine of the reverse gear. He was hauling ass tail first. I cannot say if it was impatience or bravado on Milton's part. I was a kid and could not tell the difference.

Nearing the end of the tail-first dash, Milton coasted past the ranch's old airplane hangar, a relic from the 1940s when the Agua Poquita maintained a grass strip for small aircraft. It was a corrugated steel design, topped with a low-pitch metal roof. Big sliding doors once opened wide to accommodate a small private plane. The hangar was now used to warehouse ranch equipment and gear. No evidence of the grass strip remained. I remember first asking Dad about the hanger. As a kid I thought it curious that there was one on the property. He explained how Milton's youngest brother used to fly in and out of the ranch back in the 1940s. Sadly, he perished along with his family in a 1948 plane crash north of Orange Grove. He was piloting. Dad said he was a decorated war hero in the Pacific, an ex-navy aviator.

Too bad Melvin Milton Miller, Jr. is no longer with us. I would have a thousand questions for the man.

10/03/2021

M. M. Miller, Jr.'s unflustered nature and generosity served him well when he walked the earth. He gave big, and on any scale he rewarded good honest work. He was a fair and frugal man. Milton has been gone since 1987, yet he still brings a smile or chuckle when we think back on him. He would be pleased to know that his memory is fondly regarded when we sit and talk of the old times.

About sixty miles west of his Agua Poquita Ranch, the Rio Grande flowed southeasterly down to the gulf. Old Mexico, with both its merryment and miseries, occupied the lands to the south. For generations the less fortunate on that side treked north, crossing the unguarded river without papers or authorization to find work on the American side. They were chronically poor souls driven by the desire to generate the much-needed dollar for loved ones waiting back home in La Frontera, the towns and villages south of the river. Life has always been harder there. That unsanctioned exchange of cash for services bore no semblance to the mess exploding all along the international border in these modern times. Those who crossed the river were not a danger, "solo hombres buscando una vida mejor," as mother would say.

When Miller negotiated terms with the Mexican trespassers, it was another time in South Texas, a less complicated period decades ago. There was no crisis at the border. Miller was dealing with poor humble men, some only boys, who routinely crossed into his property and at times met up with him as he rolled along on dusty ranch roads in his sky blue Chevy long bed. The Mexicans were looking for work, honest labor and little else. Miller was glad for the opportunity to hire bargain help who did not resist swinging a mattock to dig up mesquite roots. At day's end the tool always proved to be a backbreaker for the ordinary fellow. Milton referred to it as a grubbing hoe, so we did too.

If Miller happened to be minus the company of one of his Spanish-speaking ranch hands like Vito Olivarez, Poncho Cantu, or Atilano Salas, he would cautiously slow to a stop, eyeing the Mexicans, and in his limited Spanish, learn what they were all about. Miller would make a quick determination of their physical fitness. There was always work to do on the ranch, work away from prying eyes. The heart of the ranch was a huge property, miles from any highway. The Border Patrol was only a minor concern then. After a few minutes of linguistic back and forth, Miller would come to a tentative agreement with the Mexicans. The details could be ironed out once he got one of his ranch hands to explain the housing, food, work, and compensation particulars.

The laborers' stay on the Agua Poquita Ranch could range from days to several weeks, depending on the work involved and their personal sensibilities. Miller once had a crew of three young fellows who stayed on for much of one summer. He tasked them with clearing about three-thousand feet of what we called bull wire fencing. It stood taller than a man, running in a straight line east to west along the lake pasture, separating the Miller property from what was then referred to as La Cadena to the south.

Mesquite brush plagued the fence lines. In time, their unhindered growth could mesh through the bull wire until the fence was nearly obscured. Time and nature weaved the long wispy mesquite branches into the wire where they would ultimately grow into gnarled limbs several inches round. It could ruin a good fence. Miller wished that threat eliminated. The three Mexicans were put to the task. It would be many days work.

In their off hours, the three retreated to a small abandoned house known as "la casa de Don Jesusito." A laborer's family had use of the little house in the early 40s and the name stuck. It no longer stands today, having been demolished and cleared away almost forty years ago. The structure did not amount to much. A mile's walk from the Cadena fence, it had four small rooms with a half bath. The tiny rear bedroom led out to a small screened porch. Concrete blocks supported the wooden structure. It could not have been more than six-hundred square feet. The last ranch family who occupied it moved out in 1957. In later years, it served as shelter for Miller's undocumented work force. A great leafy mesquite next to the house helped shade a good part of the place throughout the day. Unfurnished, it had no electricity, no running water or working toilet. In warm weather bathing could be had 800 feet to the east where a pressure pump supplied good-tasting water to a hose bib beside an old work shed. If there was a wintery chill in the air, they could continue down the road another 800 feet and come to an artesian well. It supplied the ranch lake with brackish water. The advantage to bathing at the artesian well was that its waters came up out of the ground at about the same temperature as a good hot bath.

Miller supplied the Mexicans with foodstuffs and hygienic basics. He would run into town and purchase their necessaries, plus to***co for those who enjoyed their smokes. The fence crew requested a portable radio from Mr. Miller one day. He thought it over and agreed to procure one, but it would cost them. The radio would soon be delivered but its sticker price was coming out of their wages, as well as the supply of batteries. They agreed. At workdays' end they had their bellies satisfied, the pleasure of to***co, a warm bath, and news and music from back home. They would work for Miller until they could send a helpful amount south and still remain with enough travel money to continue their trek north, to the more lucrative labor markets.

When the Cadena fence was cleared it was a job well done. Milton could inspect the work without ever once setting a boot on the ground. He would cruise along slowly on the dirt road paralleling the fence, studying the whole affair. He saw the limbs and brush cut away with the swing axe piled in orderly stacks along the road for later burning. Every bit of spiny bush and mesquite cut down to ground level was dug out to a foot's depth to reveal the roots. Then, those were grubbed out, the cuttings laid out in a neat row by the still exposed holes where the mattock had dug deep... all evidence for Miller that the work had been executed as instructed. This assured Milton that it would be a while before nature again would ensnarl the cleared fence. Years later he would employ chemicals, but even those efforts could not best the course of nature in the brush country. Milton and his Mexican temporaries... we will never see their likes again.

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