Holding Their Own: The Salt War Part 3

Before he realized what was happening, Terri was retrieving Hunter, leaving the two men unwatched. The sound of "Ya!" followed by the pounding of hooves reached his ears before he could make it back to the entrance.

Bishop raised his rifle, zeroing in on the lead rider as the two Culpepper men raced away at a full gallop. But he didnt fire, instead lowering the weapon and barking, "s.h.i.t!"

"I just messed up, didnt I," Terri confessed, arriving at his side, watching the two hors.e.m.e.n grow smaller in the distance. "I guess I should have kept an eye on them while you were packing. I just didnt realize...."

"Its okay," Bishop mumbled, "I should have been more specific. Its been a while since weve worked together."

"Well, at least you dont have to pack up just yet."

"Actually, I think wed better find a new place and do so quickly before it gets dark. They know where were camped now. They might decide to come back with more of their friends."

Kevin stood in the pickups bed, scanning the logging lane with his high-powered optic. "See him yet?" Cory asked from behind the wheel.

"Nope. h.e.l.l be along... you know dad."

Grim, taking a knee 20 meters inside the tree line, was making sure n.o.body approached from the cover of the pines. "Hes late," the ex-contractor observed, "which these days, doesnt mean squat. We better start thinking about making camp."

"Coming in," a voice from the forest thundered, the sound triggering two rifle barrels to snap toward the source. No one relaxed until Nicks outline appeared through the foliage.

Kevin, despite wanting desperately to be treated like just one of the guys, leapt from the bed and dashed to hug his father. The embrace was returned with a warm smile.

The rest of Nicks team was happy to see their leader return as well, handshakes all around.

"Id love to stay and trade recipes with you ladies," Nick stated, moving with purpose to the boxes of supplies in the back of the truck. "But Ive got about 40 guys tracking me, and I dont think theyre a happy bunch. I need my rifle and the rest of my kit."

Pulling off his pack, Nick began rummaging through the supplies, stuffing his ruck with food and full magazines of ammunition.

Grim grunted, reading between the lines. "I take it you managed to make new friends and influence the locals. Diana is going to require your enrollment in charm school, my friend."

Nick smiled and nodded, "Everything was going fine until today. Thats when the road got a little rough."

Kevin, his gaze fixed in the direction his father had come, was worried. "Seriously, Dad? Youve got that many men trying to kill you? We better get you out of here, and right away."

"No, son, thats not how were going to play this one. Gather round, gentlemen, and let me dazzle you with the brilliance of my plan."

Chapter 3.

The incessant wailing of the villages women grated on Roccos nerves. The anger of the men only amplified the leaders own frustration and rage. Javier had been one of the few in the community to finish school, his uncle in Mexico City sending money to the family so the young man wouldnt have to work the fields and could stay in the cla.s.sroom.

Javier had been an icon of hope... of an optimistic future. His mother would never again good-naturedly chide him for leaving his boots in the hall. His younger sister and brother would never again relax after dinner while Javier fingered a tune on his guitar. The promising, young man was now buried in a hole on the hill behind the settlement.

As was his habit, when the pressures of the world grew too strong, Rocco walked. When a fever ravaged the livestock, he walked. When his wife experienced complications in childbirth, he walked. When he believed the blood of the current war was on his hands, he walked.

His route was well established. Across the knoll, past the oak, along the river, and through the canyon. The solitude, combined with the familiarity of local landmarks, instilled a sense of peace to his troubled soul. He often paused for a heart to heart with the tree, the largest growing plant for many miles. Its shade had provided an oasis for games and play, used by the villages children since he had been a boy.

Sometimes, he saved his confessions for the waterway.

Conversation with the oak was for those moments when he felt his words needed to be remembered, preserved in the record of the trees fiber and bark. The river was for those times when his thoughts deserved to be carried away by the current or drowned in the muddy, swirling stream.

He reserved the canyon for deep contemplation during times when he was conflicted. Here, the solid stone, precipitous walls, and echoing structure served to reflect his emotions a mirror of sentiment or angst through which he could achieve clarity.

Tonight, he saved his outburst for the canyon.

"We wanted none of this," he hissed at the unforgiving, inflexible, rocky gorge. "Our only desire is to raise our children, celebrate our festivals, and put food on our tables. Greed is a stranger to my people. Wealth an illusion. Why do pain, suffering, and strife have to find their way to our homes? We are undeserving of this bad fortune."

Concise thought would have concentrated Roccos anger on the occupants of the pickup. Reasonable logic would have identified the strangers as the source of his grief. But the war had taken his mind far, far beyond any rational connection of direct cause and effect.

It was the Salineros who were responsible for Javiers short life. It was Culpepper and his band of mercenaries who were to blame. He wanted them to die - and die badly. Images of his enemys homestead filled his mind, the ranch house engulfed in flames as his men stood and watched it burn.

He hungered to feel the sensation of his skinning knife, peeling away Salineros flesh, their screams of agony and pleadings for the mercy of a quick death music to his ears. His fantasy included bound Culpepper men and watching his soldiers take their turns with the captured women. Those wh.o.r.es, the ones who had birthed such sc.u.m, would be tied over barrels while the victorious Tejanos used their manhood as swords, plunging and violating over and over and over again. Their children would be enslaved, whipped to toil in the fields until reparations were paid.

Rocco shook his head in disgust. The canyon provided less relief with each revelation of his malicious thoughts, the rock walls evidently growing bored and dismissive with the continuing confessions of rage. Regardless of how vile his fury, even the stone was becoming immune and disinterested. He heard a message from the ancient formation... a lesson in time and life. "Stop this ridiculous fantasizing," scolded the granite. "You must be as I am, hard and uncaring, impervious to pain. Take action. Control your own destiny."

Continuing on his way, he finished the loop of his walking tour, strolling upon a group of men gathered in front of the church. From their expressions, he realized he wasnt the only one wrangling for revenge.

"We want to mount a night patrol," one of the more aggressive men announced. "Our ears are full of listening to Javiers mother wail. Our hearts demand blood, and were not going to find it here. Are you with us?"

"Let me get my rifle," Rocco replied coldly.

Samuel Culpepper scanned the corral with a pessimistic eye, a worn and dusty boot perched on the lowest rung of the gate. One of his most robust stallions limped by, the midnight-colored animal having pulled up short two days ago.

They lacked in horseflesh, beef, ammunition, and manpower. "This aint no way to run a war," the ranchs owner mumbled.

"I cant argue that, Mr. Culpepper," Whitey responded, the foremans eyes studying the same lame steed. "But sometimes you go to the war, and sometimes the war comes to you. Were holding our own, sir."

Maybe, thought Culpepper. Maybe not. We sure have buried our share of good men.

Their conversation was interrupted by the lookout on top of a nearby outbuilding. "Men coming in... at a gallop," the shouted communication warned.

All around the area, the hired hands scrambled, dropping bales of straw, bags of feed, and other common items a.s.sociated with a working ranch. In a few moments, wire cutters, shovels, and hand tools were replaced with rifles and shotguns.

"Two men," informed the lookout, now scanning the approaching riders with large binoculars. "Its Reed and Hutch! Stand down! Everybody stand down!"

"What the h.e.l.l are they doing coming in from that direction?" asked Mr. Culpepper, not really expecting Whitey to know. "How come they didnt give the signal?"

"No idea," the over watch replied. "Given the wear and tear theyre putting on those horses, something has to be wrong."

A few minutes later, the riders were careened inside the compound, pulling back hard on the reins to stop their animals in front of the boss.

Reed started talking as he dismounted, "We were bushwhacked by a stranger," the man began reporting in a rushed voice. "Those shots we heard earlier this morning... it was some guy and his wife and kid. He claimed the Tejanos ambushed their truck."

"Whoa, whoa, slow down, son," Mr. Culpepper said. "What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

At a more manageable speed this time, Lefty and Hutch relayed the story of Bishop getting the drop as they rode past, followed by a recounting of what the outsider had told them.

The old rancher rubbed his chin, pondering at his own pace. "What did you say this mans name was?"

"Bishop," Hutch replied. "His wifes name was Terri. Do you know them, sir?"

Mr. Culpepper turned to Whitey, "Last time you went to the market at Meraton, wasnt there some guy there who had just killed a bunch of outlaws? Wasnt his name Bishop?"

"Yes, sir, sure was. He was a very capable hombre according to the local gossip."

"Must be the same man, Mr. Culpepper. This fella got the better of us easy as pie. His rifle barrel wasnt wavering none, either. Cold, cold eyes on that fella," Hutch added.

"He looked like one of those soldier pictures I saw once up at the Alpha recruiting station," added Reed. "He had stuff all over his chest and fancy accessories on his rifle."

Culpepper chuckled, "So how did you manage to get away from this superhero?"

"He took us back to the encampment where his wife and kid were holed up. They turned their backs on us, and we high-tailed it out of there. He had them sheltering inside one of those cuts in Windy Ridge."

Whitey stepped forward, leaning in close to the boss and speaking in a hushed tone, "We could use a man like that about now, Mr. Culpepper. He probably has some friends in Meraton that might further our cause. Sounds like hes good and p.i.s.sed at the Tejanos."

The old rancher hooked his thumbs in his pants pocket, his regard far away in thought. "Whitey, take a few of the boys and go bring them in. Maybe this bad a.s.s named Bishop will appreciate his wife and child having a roof over their heads tonight."

"s.h.i.t!" Terri hissed, pausing to ma.s.sage her stubbed foot. "I cant do this at night, Bishop. We have to find someplace soon, or Im going to break my neck."

Her husband was obviously frustrated, the couple having wandered through the darkness for the last hour. Even with his night vision, their chances of finding suitable shelter in lowlight conditions were slim.

"I knew better than to try and find a hide in the dark," he whispered back. "But we didnt have any choice. Here, let me show you how to do this again. It helps."

Throwing the small lever that detached the NVD monocle from his rifle, Bishop pa.s.sed the device to his wife. "You look through it and map out 10 steps. Visualize it your mind... memorize each footfall. Then repeat after youve walked that short distance. Try it."

Terri did as instructed, lifting the small optic to her eye and peering through. The world surrounding her suddenly became brighter, the landscape painted in glowing hues of black and green. "Why cant I just walk using this?" she asked in a quiet voice. "That would make it much easier."

"Because I need to use it to scout around. If we take turns and use our memories, we can move at a good pace and..."

Bishop stopped, the whinny and snort of a horse causing him to go on full alert. Terri heard it, too. After scanning their surroundings with the scope, he motioned Terri to a small s.p.a.ce between two rocks. He was pleased that her rifle was already in her hands.

Putting his mouth right next to Terris ear, Bishop whispered, "Stay here. Dont move. Im going to see whats out there. Dont shoot me when I come back."

Terri wanted to protest, a hundred questions racing through her mind. How would she know it was him? What if Hunter cried out?

But he was gone, vanishing like a ghost into the blackness. "I hate it when he does that," she mouthed to a sleeping Hunter.

Rocco heard the horse too, the raiding party and he working their way through towards the Culpepper ranch. Their hastily formed plan was simple enough. They were hoping to catch a sleeping sentry or unaware guard. If they could get close enough, with the element of surprise, they could inflict some real damage onto their foe. If nothing else, they would cause the Salineros to lose some sleep.

The thought of riders being out at night was worrisome. It was particularly rare to skirmish after sunset, the majority of the war being conducted during daylight hours. Had his enemies come to the same conclusion deciding to escalate as well? Were they upping the ante?

With a few hushed commands and vivid hand motions, he scattered his men to the rocks. He watched as best he could, the slender moon providing little light. Taking one last glance around, he was pleased this was as good a place to set a trap as any. Rocco moved off to join his men and wait for the fly to enter the spiders web.

Whitey wasnt worried about an ambush, at least not from the Tejanos. His adversary never operated at night, and his own posse was venturing only a few miles from the ranch. While the enemy had gotten bolder over the last few weeks, his own men were still deep in Culpepper territory. Given the vast expanses of the desert and the hazy moon, the chances of two parties b.u.mping into each other were next to nil.

This Bishop fellow... he might be another story.

Hutch and Reed were leading the way, fresh animals and a quick meal improving the two riders resolve. The foreman hoped the cowpokes could remember the way back to the newcomers hiding place, prayed this Bishop character wasnt trigger happy when it came to noises in the night. He planned to shout a greeting when they got close approach under a white flag. It was risky... but the best he could manage.

As they wound their way up Windy Ridge, the boulder field grew denser. With every step, Whitey grew more apprehensive; the route was making him uncomfortable. The high rock formations provided a million hiding places, the rough terrain difficult on the horses. It just wasnt a good place to operate after sunset.

He reined in his mount, pulling to the side of the trail and listening while the remainder of his men and the pack animals pa.s.sed. Were making too much noise, he determined. Thats the problem with horses; its almost impossible to keep them still.

Glancing toward the front of his column, Whitey could barely make out the lead rider in the distance. Not a good night to be out hunting for man nor beast, he mused.

Despite the lack of vision, he knew the territory well enough to determine they were going to have to dismount and walk the animals in a few minutes. That would slow them down even more.

Rocco watched the shadowy forms of the riders pa.s.s below him, his heart filled with both fear and excitement. For once, they were in the right place at the right time, his men on both sides of the trail being followed by the Salineros. It took all of his discipline to remain still, his adrenaline-charged system demanding oxygen, the fear of impending combat forcing his body to be absolutely silent, not even chancing a breath. Wait, he kept thinking. Wait until the last rider is in our midst - then we can kill them all.

And then there werent any more men pa.s.sing beneath the Tejanos leader. He could still see the outline of one man, the cowboy idling beside the trail. Slowly, ever so cautiously, Rocco raised his rifle, centering the front post of his sights on the target. He flipped off the safety, his tingling body jerking at the seemingly thunder-like click.

Bishop knew someone was very, very close. He just didnt know where. A muted sound that suggested the slightest brush of cloth against rock, a hint of human movement in the night betrayed the attacker. It was more instinct than fact.

With his muscles charged to react, ears searching the night, the Texan slowly placed one boot in front of the other, rolling each step from toe to heel so as not to make a sound. His rifle was high against his shoulder, sweeping all around as he scanned with the night vision.

The metallic click of Roccos safety told Bishop to duck. The Texan recognized the sound immediately, his body tensing for the impact of a bullet. After a few moments, when no pain tore through him, he began to consider that perhaps he wasnt the target.

Replaying the sound in his mind, Bishop thought the rifles owner was right around the edge of the truck-sized slab of rock hed been negotiating. Recovering, he continued to circle the formation, now more vigilant than ever.

Roccos finger applied pressure to the trigger just as the barrel of his weapon came into the view of Bishops night vision, less than ten feet away. The Texans thumb flipped off his own safety a moment before the black night erupted into complete bedlam.

In reality, the clicking noise of Bishops carbine saved Whiteys life. The ranch foreman hadnt survived the numerous firefights with the Tejanos without developing cat-like reactions; allowing him to duck low in the saddle the moment the metallic noise reached his ears.

Bishops NVD shut down, the billowing ball of white light spewing from Roccos shot overrode the devices safety circuit. He found himself blinded and utterly confused. He wasnt the only one.

Roccos shot was the signal to his men, gunfire erupting up and down the trail. Hutch was. .h.i.t instantly, a 12-gauge blast tearing the unaware cowboy completely out of the saddle.

The calm, quiet Texas night exploded in complete mayhem as the ambush was unleashed, men on both sides wondering if the doors of h.e.l.l had suddenly opened in the middle of the desert.

Horses shrieked and bolted, bright flashes of gunfire strobing up and down the darkened trail like the sheet lightning of a desert thunderstorm. Hot lead filled the air, a nearly constant roar of shouting men, firing weapons, and the screaming of the wounded governing the night.

The Culpepper men werent trained soldiers, but they were all combat veterans. Caught in the middle of the Tejanos kill-zone, they should have withered and died in a few moments. Darkness, poor marksmanship, and the confusion of their opponent increased their chances of survival.

The riders dismounted, some on purpose, others having no choice as their horses were shot out from underneath them. They scrambled for the nearest cover, returning fire as best they could.

Initially, the Tejanos sensed victory, many of them exposing themselves to gain a better angle on the fleeing men below. Their overconfidence was an error, and the battlefield punished missteps.

Desperate, bewildered, and expecting to meet their maker, the cowboys along the trail had no target except for the muzzle flashes surrounding them in the rocks. It was enough, their return fire wreaking havoc on the Tejano shooters.

In less than a minute, the ambushed Salineros were climbing, scaling, and rushing into their enemy, the pitched battle breaking down into a dozen small skirmishes of close-quarters fighting. It was brutal.

Night fighting, even amongst professionals, is a soldiers worst nightmare. To accomplish coordination, communication, and effective maneuver without the benefit of daylight requires countless hours of drills, state of the art equipment, and competent commanders. Neither side possessed such a.s.sets.

Despite being hardened by the months of conflict and extreme individual bravery, the battle devolved into a swirling fur ball of small, man-to-man clashes.