Holding Their Own: The Salt War Part 7

The Texans blade pressed hard on the beaten mans throat, his knee pinning the shocked fellows knife-wrist to the dirt. "Ask him to repeat his words about my wife."

Rocco did, but there wasnt any response from the wide-eyed fellow at the tip of Bishops knife. "I dont think he heard you," the Texan growled.

Again, the villages leader repeated the demand, the mandate accented by Bishops moving his blade just enough to draw blood and pain.

A torrent of frenzied Spanish erupted from the gentleman under Bishop; the tone of his voice made it clear the fellow was pleading.

Rocco laughed after the antagonist had finished his little spiel of retreat, as did several of the bystanders. "In summary, Senor Bishop, he says you must have completely misunderstood his meaning. He was trying to compliment your wifes fine figure, and meant to imply that you and she were a perfectly matched couple."

Bishop looked down into the now smiling mans eyes, his foe trying to nod in friendliness - despite the cold steel at his jugular.

"What should I do, Rocco?" Bishop asked. "Will they think Im soft if I let him live?"

The local leader scratched his chin, moving just a step closer and lowering his voice. "Id kick his a.s.s a bit more, and then let him go if it were me."

Bishop nodded, rising slowly, never taking his eye from the now humiliated hombre.

After a few of his friends had helped their bleeding comrade to his feet, he was quickly hustled around the corner. "I suppose a couple of his buddies will help him come back in a bit," Bishop said to his host. "I bet theyll bring rifles with them the next time."

"No, I dont think so. I know these men, have lived around them all my life. You showed honor and mercy. Theyll respect that."

Bishop wasnt so sure but accepted Roccos words with a nod. "Now, about my truck...."

There were at least 20 of them, spread across a skirmish line and making more noise than a herd of elephants on crutches. Nick was perched on a limb about five feet from the ground, using the elevation to scout the area ahead, making sure no one was catching up from behind.

Using his optic, he studied their s.p.a.cing, speed, and alertness. A grunt escaped his throat, "Training, gentlemen," he whispered, "its all about the training." Exhaling in a deep sigh, he continued to observe what the ex-military operative considered a "Three Stooges" level of execution. "The semester is about to start cla.s.s will soon be in session. Im your professor today, and our subject is how not to conduct a manhunt. There will be a quiz."

The men hunting Nick were spread too far apart, 25-30 paces separating each member of the group. That formation left wide gaps an abundance of opportunities to bypa.s.s their prey. Nick resolved to make them pay for the poor tactics.

For the last 24 hours, theyd been trying to close the umbrella, gradually tightening their patterns, slowly closing in from all points of the compa.s.s. The retired Special Forces Sergeant had played along, intentionally exposing himself now and then, teasing his pursuers.

He estimated there were at least 300 men tromping and stomping through this section of northeast Texas, all of them seeking to kill or capture his carca.s.s. Now it was time to go on the offensive and really p.i.s.s them off.

It didnt take long to identify the perfect spot. Nick had watched the pursuers long enough to know they were neither professional, nor motivated. Just a few minutes of observation convinced him that they were definitely leaving stones unturned. There wasnt any need to expend a lot of energy creating an expert hide.

Ten years ago, the Rocky Mountain juniper would have made an excellent Christmas tree. Thick, full branches of bushy, dark green needles indicated a healthy specimen, the evergreen foliage draping gracefully to the forest floor. Its abundant height now far exceeded the clearances of most household ceilings, the crown nearly 20 feet high, and excusing the specimen from holiday duties.

Nick found the trees younger sibling a short distance away. Being careful to twist and not snap, he removed three thin branches from the smaller example, each about as long as his arm.

Carrying his small bundle of kindling, the big man returned to the mature juniper and went p.r.o.ne. Lifting the ring of foliage, he backed in feet first, careful not to disturb the layer of old needles and leaves littering the ground.

Twice he had to risk making a noise, his way hindered by an offshoot bough or twig that required a hardy kick. As he backed in closer to the trunk, he pulled the kindling and his rifle along. He had to maintain a low profile to the ground, the trees lower branches sc.r.a.ping across his back and legs as he wiggled, pushed, and wedged his way underneath the canopy of green.

After a few minutes, it was clear he couldnt move any further. Still, the big man was pleased with his hide. He was on the pines far side, away from the approaching hunters. This positioning was intentional, as he knew most searchers spent far more time looking ahead than behind. They would pa.s.s by him, probably without glancing over their shoulders.

And even if they did, he was nearly invisible. While it was impossible to be sure without a comrade verifying his cover, Nick believed a man could stand less than a foot away from the juniper and not be able to see him. It would take the most bizarre, unlikely set of circ.u.mstances for anyone to discover his position. The carbine would sing its song if things played badly.

Voices were the first indication that the pursuers were close. Nick grimaced, almost insulted at the lack of discipline his hunters were maintaining. As he lay listening intently, the big man heard everything from a prediction of cold temperatures that night, to a detailed observation of how short Dottie Maes skirt was yesterday. If hed been leading these men through the pine forests of Fort Bragg, they would all have been doing pushups in the mud until their arms fell off.

Footfalls began to intermix with the weather and fashion reports, the occasional sc.r.a.pe of a boot or the snapping of a twig announcing their proximity. A few moments later, Nick spied a pair of blue jeans standing not more than four feet from his juniper fortress.

"Psst... hey d.i.c.kweed... Steve... did you hear that?" whispered the blue jeans.

"What?" came a hushed, anxious voice from nearby.

"Did you hear that? I know I heard something.... Listen!" hissed the reply.

Nicks heart rate jumped, his mind certain he hadnt made a peep. What the h.e.l.l could the man beside him have heard? His grip tightened on the M4, thumb poised on the safety.

"I dont hear a d.a.m.n thing," came the eventual reply. "What is it?"

A loud, rumbling fart split the morning air, the flatulence immediately followed by belly-deep snickering.

"a.s.shole! What a f.u.c.king clown. Cmon, dude... this is some serious s.h.i.t."

"Oh, f.u.c.k off, s.h.i.thead," Mr. Blue Jeans replied. "That dude aint within five miles of here. Hes hightailed it back to West Texas or wherever the h.e.l.l hes from. Chill out."

Nicks underbrush grin had nothing to do with the amateur status of his opponents, nor their schoolboy hijinks. He was smiling because of the intelligence hed just gathered. Priceless, he thought.

It was 30 minutes before the operator chanced exiting his hide. While the skirmish line of armed men had long faded into the deep woods, he had to be certain there werent any follow-on forces behind the initial formation. Again, his adversaries displayed their lack of experience.

He headed out in the direction opposite of his pursuers route, but his logic had nothing to do with putting distance between himself and a sizeable, armed foe. Nick understood that his enemy was losing interest in catching him, some of them even doubting he was still in the area. He had to correct their perspective.

It was two miles before he came upon their transports, three ATVs and four pickup trucks parked along what had been a muddy logging road. Shaking his head, Nick questioned his antagonists seriousness not a single sentry had been posted. "d.a.m.n! Not even a welcoming party. A guy could take this personally."

Pulling his fighting knife, he ducked underneath the first truck and rammed the thick steel blade into the gas tank. Within two minutes, the three remaining vehicles were all leaking petrol. He pushed the ATVs close to the pickups, allowing plenty of time for the flammable vapors to inundate the area. Satisfied with his handiwork, Nick then surveyed the terrain for a suitable path of escape.

Next, he retrieved a small limb lying on the ground, offering just enough dry foliage to feed the flame for a few moments. He held it under the still-flowing stream of fuel for a quick douse, and then stepped back to a safe distance.

His kit contained a book of waterproof matches for just such occasions. A second later, he lit the torch and tossed it under the nearest truck. There was a significant whoosh, and then a ball of fire that would have impressed even the most persnickety pyromaniac. Nick watched as the blaze leapt to the surrounding pools of gas, the inferno growing as it spread. Then he wistfully sighed and remarked, "Dang it! Left the marshmallows at home."

Nick trotted away, heading off to find a hiding spot for the night.

When the remaining fumes inside one of the punctured tanks reached a critical temperature, the container exploded with noteworthy force. A huge, black cloud of ominous smoke and flame soared skyward as the detonations thunder rolled through the forest. Three more nearly-identical blasts soon followed.

The ex-Green Beret paused his stride, turning to watch the columns of fire and ash rising above the forest canopy. "Thats really going to p.i.s.s someone off," he smiled.

The ma.s.sive bonfire was raging in full glory by the time the owners came rushing back. A long string of breathless men and boys appeared, hustling through the trees to see what was burning. The once-formed skirmish line was now a ragtag, undisciplined parade of markedly angry, cursing individuals.

Many of the former hunters began swearing about their bad luck, extended streams of foul language competing with the roar of the inferno. Others only shrugged their shoulders and started walking home.

Mr. Gospel wasnt happy with being called out so late at night. He had just settled in, removing his boots for a quiet evening at home.

When the chief banged loudly at the front door, Standowski had answered with a shotgun. Despite the law and order his men maintained in Cartersville, in this day and age, prudent fellows said, "h.e.l.lo," while chambering a round.

"Stan, put that d.a.m.n thing away," the ex-city cop and longtime friend chided. "One of these days, youre going to shoot me or one of my men."

"With that stranger on the loose, Im keeping it close at hand," the towns leader replied. "That son of a b.i.t.c.h is dangerous as h.e.l.l."

The silver-haired cop chuckled. "If I had been that drifter and wanted to murder your sorry a.s.s, do you think I wouldve knocked?"

Standowski ignored the reb.u.t.tal, motioning his old friend inside. "Whats up?"

The head of Cartersvilles security forces delivered the bad news, informing the de-facto mayor of the destroyed vehicles and failure to capture the fugitive. Stan took it all in, only occasionally grunting or shaking his head.

"We have to catch that b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and we need to do it quick. I dont care how many men we need to send out into those woods; I want that a.s.shole standing trial, and then I want his head on a pike, garnishing the courthouse lawn."

"Why, Stan? Hes gone now... and probably will never show his face around here again. Ive already been rea.s.signing men who were guarding the gates and the trailers, pulling manpower from every one of our outposts. We have people murmuring about the three boys he shot, rumors circulating all over town. Let it fade, my old friend. Let it drift away, and a week from now, no one will even remember it happened."

But Mr. Gospel wouldnt hear of it. "Thats how it starts! Its the little things that s...o...b..ll out of control, and pretty soon weve got political unrest. From there, its only a short distance to outright anarchy."

The old cop shook his head. "So you want to make an example out of this guy, regardless of the cost?"

"Youre d.a.m.ned right I do. Look, my guys already hear gossip and whispered bulls.h.i.t. People are talking about this Alliance and wondering if any of its true. Word is all over the Exchange and spreading out to the farms. You need to catch this a.s.shole, and then well have a little private persuasion session with him. Within a day, my boys will have him admitting he was lying about the whole ordeal."

The former chief was pensive. "You really think letting Nick go is going to cause us that much trouble? I dont know about that... I think youre overreacting. My advice is to let him wander off, and the whole affair will die down into nothing."

"But hes not wandering off, Chief. He has not gone back to wherever he came from. You said yourself just yesterday that he could have slipped away a dozen times. Yet, he hasnt chosen to do so. That man is up to something, stalking around out there in the woods and making us all look like fools. I dont know what hes got planned, but Im sure were not going to like it."

The chief couldnt argue with Mr. Gospels logic. "I suppose youre right, as usual. Tomorrow morning, Ill put another hundred men on the hunt."

"What about Greyson and his boys?" asked Stan.

"I thought about that, but you know what an a.s.shole that guy can be. I hate dealing with that p.r.i.c.k. He doesnt give a s.h.i.t about anybody but himself and that d.a.m.n farm of his. The sons arent much better."

Gospel nodded, "I know. I dont care for him much either, but they were the best hunters around here before the collapse. Theyve got all those fancy hog-tracking doodads... thermal imagers... night goggles and gawd knows what else."

The chief grunted, "Yeah, I know. Back in the day, they had better equipment than my department."

"Offer old man Greyson a reward if he brings in our fugitive. Let him and those boys hes always bragging about prove theyre the best hunters in East Texas."

The sign at the end of the long driveway read, "Greyson Ranch: Safaris, Guided Hunts, Hunting Leases, and Equipment Rental."

The chief pulled his cruiser to the st.u.r.dy gate, noting the main house still boasted electric lights. Mr. Greyson hadnt been forthcoming when asked where he obtained the fuel for his generators.

The speakerphone buzzed, "What do you want, Chief?"

"Ive got a proposition for you, Greyson. Stan sent me out to talk to you."

"You dont say," came the static-filled reply.

The gate swung open via a humming motor, making the old cop wonder just how much electrical power the ranch could produce... and how it managed to do so.

He continued through the threshold, driving slowly along the winding drive. An image appeared at the edge of his headlights, a sole figure holding a tactical shotgun of wicked-looking configuration.

The chief stopped the car, shaking his head at the old mans paranoia. "You wont need that scatter gun, Greyson," he announced as he exited the cruiser. "Im here to hire you, not arrest you."

"Hire me for what?"

The chief relayed the story of the fugitive troublemaker, highlighting that the man was a suspected thief, preying on the poor, nearly starving vendors at the Exchange. In addition, the wanted thug had blindsided a couple of the towns deputies, a.s.saulting the unaware officers without cause.

Greyson was pessimistic. "More like a couple of your boys got a little forward with the wrong guy," the old coot grumbled. "No matter. Whats the job pay?"

"What do you want?"

The chiefs host scratched the salt and pepper stubble on his chin. "Well, for d.a.m.n sure I aint interested in any of the monopoly money Standowski prints up. We can always use more ammo though. We need .308 and .338, and of course, a man can never have enough 12-gauge sh.e.l.ls."

"That might be arranged."

"Well take 500 rounds, any mix if we bring him in alive. Our invoice will be 250 cartridges if hes dead."

The chief laughed, a pre-rehea.r.s.ed reaction, no matter what the old man asked for. "Come on, Greyson. You know ammo is in short supply everywhere - they aint making it no more. The town will pay 300 rounds alive, 150 dead."

Back and forth the negotiations went, the two men haggling more for the sake of victory than the actual terms of reward or cost.

When they finally came to an agreement, the chief extracted a map from his front seat. "We think hes in this area here," he explained, drawing an outline with his finger. "I dont have anyone out there at night, so anybody you see is fair game. Ill hold my boys back until 9 a.m., and then were coming in with 400 men."

Greyson laughed, shaking his head. "My old granny could outfox that plan. She could hear you coming with 400 noisy-a.s.s rednecks a mile away. Well get em, Chief. Well go tonight. You head back into town and get our reward all counted out and wrapped up with a pretty, little bow."

Nodding, the old cop turned, strolling back to his car. As he reached the door, he heard Greyson call out, "Did you hear that, boys? Were going hunting. Get your s.h.i.t in one bag."

Three outlines appeared, rising out of the darkness like ghouls in a horror flick. All of them sported high-powered rifles and were wearing various forms of camouflage. One of them, outfitted with a straw-colored ghillie suit, was less than 10 feet from the chiefs cruiser.

The old officer had to smirk as he put the car in reverse. "At least he didnt call out all five of his boys for my welcoming committee."

The shallow canyon was really more of a wash than a formation. Shoulder-high from top to bottom, Nick surmised that drainage had sculpted the terrain.

Ridges of sandstone protruded from the north side, one of the flat, shelf-like rocks extending over three feet from the earthen wall of yellowish soil. It was shelter of a sort, large enough to keep dew or rain off his sleeping bag or hide the flames of a small fire.

Using his knife to dig, pick, and sc.r.a.pe, he cleared the soft dirt to excavate enough s.p.a.ce to accommodate his oversized body. It wasnt the Waldorf, but hed slept in worse places.

Next came the trip wires, barely over an inch above the ground and covered with dead foliage and pine needles. He spanned the primary approaches to his den, attaching the taunt ends to homemade noisemakers.

Standing back to inspect his labors, Nick surmised that only a well trained professional might avoid the web of early warning fishing line.

He gathered a small supply of the driest wood he could find, knowing the odor and smoke trail were risky. His desire for a hot meal and longing for steaming coffee overrode the odds of discovery. Hed keep the blaze small, the duration short. There was a slight breeze to disperse the aroma, and it was unlikely anyone would observe the smoke after dusk.

It was a tremendous relief to unshoulder the pack and remove his chest rig and armor. His endurance, strengthened by years of humping a heavy kit all over the planet, wasnt what it used to be. This is why men retire so young from the forces, he mused, stretching his stiff back and flexing a sore knee. We punish our bodies until they burn out, and then were discarded, useless and old.

Unpacking a quick meal and making sure everything was ready to heat, Nick was soon gathering tinder. He didnt have to go far. In minutes, there was a slight pile under the ledge of his rock shelter. It was going to get chilly this evening, and the residual heat from his cooking fire would make the rock warm and cozy at least for a short time. The sandstone overhang above the campfire would also help to disburse the smoke.

A few minutes later, the blaze was crackling, surrounded by several baseball-sized stones. He wasnt worried about the fire spreading, but wanted to heat the rocks in case the air became cold later that night. Without weather forecasts, it was always better to be safe than shivering.

He let the water boil for 15 minutes, using the time to check both ends of his shallow draw. Survival, when being hunted, equated to diligence, caution, and discipline. His meal would be much more enjoyable if he wasnt worried about armed men stalking his camp.

He took a moment to hang his pack, suspending the ruck with a length of fishing line from a nearby pine. Texas was thick with fire ants and other a.s.sorted critters that always posed a concern. The last thing he needed was some nosey possum drawing the wrath of his carbine, an event which would help any nighttime hunters vector in on his locale.

The meal was c.r.a.p, but then again, fine dining in the field wasnt often an option. Pulling his secret stash of Tabasco from his ruck, Nick sprinkled a few drops on the salted beef and onion stew concocted from his stores. Hed pa.s.sed by a small lake a few hours ago, a thick patch of cattails growing on the waters edge. Taking just a moment, hed pulled up a handful of the versatile plants. Now the tubers were steaming in the broth.