I was six years old the first time I heard about my grandfather’s encounter with the devil. The two met in 1945 near Anáhuac, Nuevo León, Mexico, about an hour southwest of Laredo. My grandpa was sixteen, playing poker with his cousin at a small bar out in the country, when a handsome, well-dressed stranger strolled into the room. He was tall and thin, sporting a crisp white shirt, black pants, and matching black boots. Immediately, for reasons my grandpa never fully understood, he suspected that this man was Satan.