Holding Their Own: The Salt War Part 6

Terri tilted her head, never having heard that part of Texa.s.s history before. Again, Mr. Culpepper fell silent.

She was just about to ask him about the current dispute when a rider approached the house. Terri recognized Whitey from last night. "Were leaving you short-handed here, Mr. Culpepper. There are only twenty men left hereabouts. Well be watching for a flare if they hit the ranch."

Sam nodded his understanding. "You be careful, Whitey. Weve already lost enough men to those animals. Bring everybody back, including this ladys husband if you find him."

Whitey tipped his hat and said, "Will do, sir," and then rode off, spurring his horse to catch up with the long column of riders.

"Are you expecting a major battle?" Terri asked, impressed at the show of force.

"No. Theyll fade away, back across the river and into the hills. I fought in 'Nam... battled the Viet Cong. They used the same tactics against us for years. The Tejanos wont make a stand unless they have superior numbers. Its a cla.s.sic guerrilla warfare tactic. If I dont send out a large party, theyll ambush us. If I do respond with a large force, I waste valuable resources chasing ghosts."

Terri could hear the frustration in the mans voice and now understood his sadness. Before she could say anything else, he stood and looked her in the eye. "Thats why I sent my men back last night... sent them to retrieve you and your husband. I hear hes a fighting man, and Im about at my wits end. I was hoping he could come up with a solution, but instead I lost eight good men and now have you and your son to feed and shelter. You and I both are praying we find him this morning."

Mr. Culpeppers words took Terri by surprise. Before she could react, he stepped off the porch and moved with purposeful stride toward the barn.

The village of San Ignacio was a timeless settlement. Nestled along the winding Rio Grande, it was a quaint community of stucco, adobe, and mud-straw structures.

They had crossed the great river via one of the half-dozen foot bridges that connected Chihuahua, Mexico with the Lone Star state. The river was narrow here, dipping into sandstone canyons sometimes less than 50 feet in width.

Were it not for the waterway, it would be difficult to detect any international boundary. The long line of Tejanos had pa.s.sed through nearly identical bergs on the Texas side, unincorporated places with names like Fort Hammond and McLeay.

To Bishops eye, the only difference between the settlements on either side of the waterway had been which pre-collapse flag had flown over the local post office. The people looked the same, as did the architecture, menus, customs, and churches.

Like every community in the world, San Ignacio had suffered during the fall of society. Empty homes, closed businesses, and thin residents were all in plain view.

"Our village hasnt grown in over 50 years," Rocco informed Bishop. "El Paso and Juarez to the north were like bright lights to the moth-eyes of our young. They saw opportunity there that didnt exist here. Some of them eventually drifted back, longing for the slower pace of life - but just a few. The only ones who never ventured to the metro areas were those too poor to even chance life in the big city."

Bishop nodded, "Our agricultural towns suffered the same problems. There used to be a saying, 'How do we keep em down on the farm?"

Rocco smiled knowingly, "When everything went to h.e.l.l, many of our young people came back. The cities became even more dangerous hostile, violent munic.i.p.alities where there wasnt any food. For a while, our village was actually indebted to the apocalypse... so many of the children and grandchildren returning to their families."

It was understandable. In times of crisis, it was human nature to long for the security of home and family. Hed done exactly the same thing, leaving Houston to return to the land of his youth.

Bishop spied small patches of gardens and the occasional milk cow chewing slowly in the mid-day sunshine. There seemed to be chickens everywhere.

"I dont get it, Rocco," the Texan said. "You say you are fighting and dying for salt, but I see plenty of other food sources here. I know salt is important for storing meat and other preservation tasks but do you really need it badly enough to die for?"

The Mexican laughed, slapping Bishop on the shoulder with an affable swat. "Come along, Senor, let me show you something," he said, tugging Bishops arm toward a side street.

The two men walked less than a block, Rocco glancing at the small adobe homes dotting the dirt lane. Finally spotting what he was looking for, the big man stopped and shouted a greeting in Spanish, "Marco? Marco are you home?"

A small tangle of black hair appeared in the gla.s.sless window, nudging aside the wispy material that served as a curtain. Bishop could barely detect the eyes peering over the sill.

"Marco, come on out here. I have a friend I want you to meet," Rocco continued.

A minute or so later, a reluctant figure showed through the doorway, clinging to the shadows as if he were scared of the rifle-toting gringo standing with the villages leader.

"Come on now, boy. No need to be reserved. This is my new friend, Bishop. He is a great warrior from Texas... but a friend to the Tejanos."

Finally, the lad appeared, Bishop estimating his age around 11, give or take. When the kid stepped through the threshold and into the light, Bishop couldnt help but inhale sharply.

The childs skin was blue. Not painted blue, or tattooed blue, but pigment deep, royal sky blue.

Throwing Rocco a questioning look, the Texan inquired, "Is this for some ceremony? A tattoo custom? I dont get it."

"Its a side effect. Marco had tuberculosis, almost died from it. So did hundreds of others here and in the nearby villages. We treated it the only way we knew how administering colloidal silver. For some people, the protocol turns them blue."

Rocco tousled the boys locks and then urged him back into the home. The two men pivoted, returning to the main street and joining the still pa.s.sing line of Tejano soldiers.

"Sorry to be so dense," Bishop finally said, "but I still dont get it. What does salt have to do with tuberculosis?"

"When the TB started spreading like wildfire and there was no help from Mexico City, we sought the only natural cure the elders could remember being effective. We sent men to reopen the old silver mines so we could extract small amounts of ore. But you need salt to refine silver, Bishop. Lots of salt. And that is why we have no choice but to fight."

"Everyone looks pretty healthy to me," Bishop noted, looking around. "Ive not noticed any coughing or feverish looking folks. Have you turned the tide against the bacteria?"

The village leader nodded, "Drinking the colloidal silver doesnt cure the bug. It only seems to put it into remission. We have over a thousand infected souls that will grow sick and surely die if we dont keep supplying them the medicine. We have no alternative."

Bishop stopped cold, his complexion going cold white with fear. "Are the people contagious while theyre drinking the silver water?"

Again, Rocco busted out laughing at his new friend. "No, Senor. We dont believe they are."

"Whats so funny?" Bishop asked, thinking his inquiry was completely legitimate.

"Im sorry," Rocco said, trying to keep a straight face. "The man who held a knife to my throat just a short time ago and looked at me with the devils own eyes. The same man shot his way out of my best ambush on the road. I just find it funny that a slayer such as you would be frightened of tiny, little bug-germs."

Bishop got it, just a little embarra.s.sed over his reaction. "d.a.m.n right Im scared of tiny, little bug-germs. Ill let you in on another secret Im scared s.h.i.tless of my wife, too."

Chapter 5.

Sleep came easy on the bed covered with pima cotton sheets and a real comforter. Once Hunter had filled his belly full of rice and carrots, he had easily succ.u.mbed to deep slumber. With her tummy full and her son safely snuggled on a thick patchwork quilt, mother hadnt taken long to join son.

She estimated it was late afternoon when the thunder of horses hooves awakened her. Hunter was sprawled on the floor beside her, wide-eyed and content with new surroundings. After a quick diaper change and splashing a handful of water across her face, Terri hurriedly pulled a brush through her hair and made for the back door. She was curious, bored, and wondering if the ranchs men had found Bishop.

One look from Whitey told her they hadnt. That was the bad news. "We didnt find his body either," the foreman advised, trying to emphasize the positive. "And as usual, the Tejanos only left with their own dead," he said, pointing at several bodies draped over the horses backs.

Terri sighed, nodding her understanding of what the man was trying to tell her. "So you think the Tejanos have captured my husband right?"

Whitey looked down, shuffling his boots in the dirt. "Yes, maam, Im reasonably sure they did."

"What does that mean?" Terri asked, not one single bit happy with the cowboys reaction.

"It means theyll most likely kill him," came Mr. Culpeppers voice as he joined them. "Any of our men that have fallen into their hands have been executed. And Im not going to lie to you, they didnt die quickly."

Terris face flushed with anger. "I need to get to Alpha... and I need to get there right f.u.c.king now. I will have 10,000 men with battle tanks and Apache helicopters. .h.i.t that village in less than two hours."

Both of the cattlemen simply stared at the irate woman next to them, her reaction predictable, but her words not making any sense. "Maam... Miss Terri... I know youre upset, but..."

"Seriously, gentlemen. I must get to Alpha or Meraton or Fort Bliss... it doesnt matter. I will bring down the wrath of h.e.l.l on those people if they dont let my husband go."

Whitey was visibly shocked by the words coming from the polite, demure, young mother hed rescued from the valley. Mr. Culpepper, on the other hand, tilted his head, intently studying his guest.

"Its five days ride to Alpha from here," the older rancher stated calmly. "Almost as far to Meraton. Even with my best horses, youd never make it before your husbands fate is sealed - one way or the other."

"You dont have any cars or trucks?"

Whitey snorted, shaking his head at what was apparently a nave question. "We havent had any gasoline in six months."

"Our truck..." Terri started.

"The Tejanos have your truck. And from what youve told me, even if they havent used the gasoline already, theres no way we can go and bring the vehicle back here."

"Is there a radio? A shortwave radio anywhere nearby?"

Mr. Culpepper was patient with his response. "I have CBs. We used them to communicate with the hands as they worked around the spread, but the last of the gas was used in our generator a long time ago. Theres no electricity, Miss Terri, and even if there were, the range of my equipment is very limited."

Terri began pacing like a caged cat, the helplessness surging through her core something the leader of the Alliance hadnt experienced in quite some time.

The whole predicament was all so stupid and meaningless. Less than two hours drive away, there were ample resources to resolve this dilemma, and she couldnt access them because of a simple lack of communication.

It dawned on her that the entire range war at the root of this situation was just as senseless. People back in her world had access to salt. She didnt know exactly where it was coming from, but one thing was for certain no one in the Alliance was fighting and dying over the crystalline substance.

Culpepper and Whitey watched her pace, both men still digesting her response and words. Whitey came to the conclusion that she was just a loyal, loving wife having an exaggerated reaction. Mr. Culpepper wasnt so sure.

After giving her a few minutes to walk off her surge of anger, the older man spoke. "Even if we could figure out a way to get a message through, what makes you so sure you could summon enough help to rescue your husband?"

Terri stopped mid-step, throwing her host a look that implied hed just asked an incredibly dumb question. But then she caught herself, remembering where she was.

"I need to tell you a story, Mr. Culpepper. Its going to be a little hard to believe, but true nonetheless," she said sweetly.

Bishop chewed the last of the flatbread tortilla, the fried wrapper encircling a mixture of meat and cheese that was quite filling. He started to ask about the meat, but changed his mind. Some things were just better left to the imagination.

A deep yawn followed, the combination of a full stomach and lack of sleep taking their toll. Rising with the thought of finding a horizontal surface, he wandered outside of Roccos modest home hoping to find the village leader and discuss the matter of a cot or bed.

He was a stranger in the village, that fact made obvious by the short glances and occasional frowns from the locals. As he strolled along, Bishop couldnt help but wonder if his race had anything to do with the unfriendly atmosphere. Hed seen a few other whites among the local Latinos, one of the soldiers mentioning that some of the local ranchers had sided with the villages on this side of the border.

A few of the men stared at his rifle and kit, probably wondering why Rocco was letting a strange gringo wander around their town armed. Others merely ignored Bishop, directing their eyes straight ahead.

After inquiring about Roccos whereabouts and being answered only with pointing fingers, Bishop soon discovered his host leaning against the bullet-ridden pickup.

There were several men gathered around, a few of them actually working on repairs. The entire picture further soured the Texans mood.

Trying to sound friendly, Bishop asked, "Whats the prognosis? Will she ever run again?"

Rocco shook his head. "Unknown at this time, Senor. If it is possible, I will keep my word."

Another man approached, stepping from the back of the truck and rambling on in Spanish. Bishop could tell the conversation was about him, picking up a few words here and there.

Rocco and the new man verbally volleyed back and forth, quick bursts of conversation that sounded emotional, but not angry. Finally, the villages leader turned to Bishop in an effort to explain. "He thinks I should just shoot you and take your equipment. He doesnt understand why Im helping you at all."

Before Bishop could reply, several locals started to gather, the sheer numbers making the Texan uncomfortable. He decided to suppress the smart a.s.s remark cued up in his throat. "And you said?"

Rocco grunted, then waved a dismissive hand through the air. "I informed my hot-headed friend that you had saved my life," he said, pointing to the bandages and wounds. "I told them that I appreciated that fact and wouldnt go back on my word."

Bishops eyes darted from Rocco to the boisterous local, finding the Latino staring in a most unfriendly manner. The Texan swept the crowd, spotting several others who seemed to echo the threatening perspective. For what seemed like the hundredth time since embarking on the vacation, the Texan was having second thoughts about his decisions.

That realization was immediately followed by Mr. Hard a.s.s producing a knife, followed by a sneering grin and a guttural outburst of Spanish dialogue. The surrounding men all snorted and cackled their support.

"He said that he regrets not capturing your wife, Senor. He remarked at how luscious her a.s.s looked as it was scurrying away from our ambush, and how he was sure after a few evenings of his company, she would regret having spent her time with a queer like you."

Rocco started to move toward the challenging fellow, ready to quell the hostility. But Bishops words interrupted the effort. "Is this man important to you, Rocco?" came the icy-cold question.

Short term memories of Bishops knife being at his throat came back to Rocco, the leaders eyes going to the fighting knife on Bishops chest rig. "No, as a matter of fact, hes quite the pain in the a.s.s. A second guesser of just about every decision."

"Want me to fix that?" Bishop asked, his eyes never leaving the man with the knife.

Trying to play out what would happen if a fight did occur, Rocco didnt answer immediately. Finally, scratching his chin, he said, "Well, I suppose it might help things in the long run. Do you have to kill him?"

"Probably."

"I would never deny a man a chance to protect his honor, especially against another who speaks of a wife in this way."

Bishop flipped the carbine around to his back and drew his own knife.

The move seemed to surprise Mr. Hard a.s.s, his gawking eyes dancing between Rocco and his friends. Much to the fellows chagrin, Rocco swept the ground between the two potential combatants as if to say, "Be my guest."

Bishop sensed the mans hesitation as well. "Tell him I wont kill him if he drops the knife and admits that hes only mad because his d.i.c.k wont get hard."

After Bishops taunt was repeated in Spanish, several of the men laughed, which only seemed to enrage the antagonist. He charged.

There were only three steps between the two combatants, but the villagers lowered head and Indian-like battle cry gave Bishop plenty of notice. The Texan side-stepped his attacker, having plenty of time to put a boot on the mans a.s.s as he pa.s.sed. Laughter erupted from the growing throng.

That small flash of engagement made Bishop realize the foe he faced was an amateur. While there wasnt any doubt of the fellows willingness to fight, it was clear he wasnt professionally trained or all that experienced.

"Tell him to knock off this bulls.h.i.t before he gets killed," Bishop said to Rocco, never taking his eyes away from the now-circling villager. "Tell him hes completely out of his league, and I dont like one-sided fights."

Again, Roccos voice sounded in the local dialect. Again, the local charged, this time slashing back and forth through the air with his blade.

But his arm was trying to sweep too wide, the arch of the swings taking too long to recover. Effortlessly timing the move, Bishop stepped into the mans wheelhouse just after the blade had whooshed by. He could have easily driven his knife-edge into the mans chest but didnt. Three brutal rabbit punches slammed into the fellows face, each landing with head-snapping force.

The villager went down, and in a blink, Bishop was on him.