by Joe Nobody
Nick pistol whipped his shield, slamming the barrel hard into the back of the man’s neck. The fourth deputy had finally managed to palm his weapon, but it was too late. Like a football punter, Nick took one big step and landed his size 14 boot squarely on the enforcer’s temple.
In less than five seconds, all four of Gospel’s henchmen were disabled. The former union boss stood speechless, fear filling his eyes, watching Nick point the captured weapon at his head.
“I’m going to give you one warning, Standowski… and only one. Don’t start a fucking war you can’t win. This was a minor league play against a professional, and there are thousands and thousands more just like me in the Alliance. If you ever pull such bullshit again, I’ll personally kill you … and do it slowly.”
For the first time since Nick had been around Mr. Gospel, the local leader didn’t have any good news to share. In fact, he was speechless.
Nick glanced once more at his attackers moaning on the ground and shook his head. “Shame you ordered these men to do your dirty work, and all because you are a coward. Hard telling how many of your people are going to die if things get really rough,” he stated, and then began jogging for the nearby gate.
There were four guards at the barricade, all of them having heard gunshots just a few moments before, none of them knowing what or who was involved. Before Gospel could gather his courage or wits, Nick passed by the armed sentries and was outside the wall.
Kevin, Grim, and Cory were scheduled to meet Nick just over a mile outside of town. With only an occasional glance over his shoulder, Nick casually strolled along the road, seemingly confident no one from Cartersville would be stupid enough to chase after him.
He had completely overestimated Mr. Gospel’s intelligence.
Ten minutes and half a mile later, the distinct hum of engines sounded from the receding town. Nick stopped his trek, turning to see what possible dumb ass stunt his former hosts might have in mind. He didn’t have to wait long for the ill-conceived plot to be exposed.
Soon the emissary could identify at least a half dozen pickups, the beds piled full of men brandishing rifles in the air. The vision pissed Nick off.
Seconds later, he was running through the pine woods bordering the road, moving at a rapid pace while growling profanities at the ignorance that dominated Cartersville, Texas.
The tracks and manure put Bishop on the trail. A shod horse, maybe two, had passed this way not long ago. Soon, he encountered some older tracking signs, a confusion of hoof marks trotting both directions. Somebody was using this route on a consistent basis. Cresting a small rise, he spotted the riders, the picture-perfect scene worthy of a dime store postcard.
They were 300 yards distant, the blood-red sun casting its matchless pigment on the backdrop of the Guadalupe Mountains from its vantage near the western horizon. Two horsemen perched on their trusty steeds, the outline of their western hats tilted low, their posture indicating they were saddle-weary from a long ride. They were headed toward Bishop.
Were it not for the time and place, Bishop would have assumed they were two ranch hands, riding fence or looking for strays. As the pair ventured closer, the silhouette of battle rifles carried across the saddle horns completely ruined the earlier, picturesque image.
The Texan traced their route, the older tracks he’d been following a clear indication of their intended course. A short distance away, he identified the perfect hiding spot, a rock formation that would allow the armed men to pass directly beneath him.
After a quick, scrambling climb, he was waiting. The gentle hoof falls in the soft, sandy soil confirmed he’d conjectured correctly, watching the armed men pass not more than 15 feet away.
“Evening,” he said, startling both men.
The one in front started to turn, his rifle coming up. “I wouldn’t,” Bishop barked, his tone deep and stern. “I got the drop on ya, fair and square. I just want to talk.”
The rifle returned to rest across the saddle horn, both men craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the man who was behind the voice from up in the rocks.
What they saw must have seemed odd to the cowboys. Bishop was above them, his load vest bristling with pouches and magazines, thick body armor and kit swelling the Texan’s outline. While the steady muzzle of the M4 rifle communicated the seriousness of their situation, it was the cold, unblinking stare of the stranger’s eyes that sent fear racing through the rider’s veins.
“Why did you ambush my wife and me?” Bishop asked. “Why did you shoot up my truck?”
“We never shot up no truck, mister. Swear it. We thought we heard some gunfire earlier today, but it wasn’t us,” replied the older of the two.
Something in the man’s voice led Bishop to believe the words, but there wasn’t any way to be sure. “Okay, say I buy that story for a minute. What brings you two fine gentlemen out this way, complete with AR15 rifles and binoculars?”
“We ride for the Salineros,” replied the younger man, quickly recovering from the shock of Bishop’s appearance. “We work for Mr. Culpepper, and you’re on Culpepper land.”
“Salineros?” Bishop questioned, trying to recall his seldom used, barely passable Spanish. “Salt men?”
Bishop observed the forearm muscles ripple across the young rider’s arm, his grip on his rifle tightening. “I wouldn’t, son. I’ve got a four-pound trigger on this blaster, and my finger is already at three and a half. You’ll never make it.”
The senior of the two reached across, putting downward pressure on his partner’s arm. “Don’t,” he whispered. His gaze then directed at Bishop. “Mister, I’ll say it again; we never shot up no truck. The last fighting our outfit did was two days ago. I’m guessing it was the Tejanos that bushwhacked you.”
“The Tejanos?”
“That’s what they call themselves. They’re mostly Mexicans from a small village right across the river. They’ve ginned up some of the outlying ranchers and farmers, got them to join their side as well. There’s been trouble in these parts for the last four months… kind of a range war, if you will.”
Bishop was puzzled. What was there to fight over? The area was remote, with slight population and even less resources. Further south of here, the Rio Grande valley wasn’t tillable like so much of the river’s shoreline. Vertical canyons and sandstone rock formations were landscaping mainstays of the border area, a heaven for climbers and campers, but not of much value for agricultural pursuits. Still, why hadn’t the Alliance been aware of this ongoing conflict?
“Can you explain why these Tejanos would open fire on an innocent passerby?” Bishop asked.
The two riders peered at each other, obviously vacillating about how to answer the question. “Look fellas, I’m not having a good day,” Bishop began. “Somebody shot up my new pickup, damned near killed my wife and baby son, and left us to perish out here in God knows where without water or food. Those horses you’re riding look like my ticket out of this shithole, so start talking before I decide to knock both of your asses out of those saddles and canter back home.”
Sighing, the older man nodded. “Mr. Culpepper has been hiring men to shore up our side. The Tejanos obviously don’t like that much. Could be they thought you were new employees heading to the ranch and decided to waylay ya.”
“I see,” Bishop responded. “And where might this hacienda be?”
Again, the two caballeros hesitated to answer, almost as if they were protecting some military secret. Bishop was growing tired of their games. “Do the Tejanos know where the Salineros spread is?”
“Look, stranger,” the older cowpoke said. “Why don’t we just give you and your family a ride to the ranch? You can talk to Mr. Culpepper and sort all this out. As long as you’re not working for the Tejanos, there’s no ill will on our part.”
Bishop considered their offer, his first reaction a negative one. He had been chased by hot lead; his pickup had been turned into a hunk of bullet-peppered metal, and he’d been forced t
o take a life. The thought of strolling into an armed camp, hostile or not, didn’t sound like a winning proposition.
But, on the other hand, Terri and Hunter wouldn’t last long out here in the desert. Even if his family did manage to hike out, it would be a dicey experience, riddled with agony, fear, and misery. He visualized Terri trekking out of the sandy inferno, massive dehydration headache, blistered lips, and burned skin. I would never have sex again, he rationalized.
Guilt, spawned by the awareness that his plan had landed his family in the middle of this mess, superceded his pessimistic outlook. “Okay, friend, we can do that. Keep riding south for another 200 yards and then cut over the ridge. We’ll pick up my wife and son there.”
Terri was spooning small portions of what the military called mashed potatoes into Hunter’s eager mouth. “Here comes the airplane,” she smiled, swooping the spoon through the air to keep his attention. Between bites, she scanned the ever darker desert beyond, wondering how much longer Bishop would be gone.
The single, small stone bouncing off a nearby ledge answered her question, but her relief was short-lived. Two men leading horses were approaching.
Much to Hunter’s surprise, the infant found himself being scooped up from his improvised high chair. Now he was the airplane. Setting her child on a makeshift bed comprised of Bishop’s spare shirt, Terri darted back to the entrance in a flash.
She had just centered the red dot on the lead man when Bishop’s profile came into view. Taking a deep breath to slow her racing heart, she lowered her weapon but still kept it handy.
“Terri,” Bishop called, “I’ve brought home some new friends for dinner.”
“Are you going to skin and dress them before I sauté them?” she asked, instantly regretting the smart-ass remark.
Laughing, Bishop responded, “Very amusing. These men work for a local rancher by the name of Culpepper. Gentlemen, meet my better half, Terri.”
Both men removed their hats. “Ma’am,” the two responded in unison.
“They’ve volunteered to let Hunter and you ride one of their horses out of here. They claim the ranch isn’t far away, and that we’d be more comfortable there.”
A thousand questions swirled around Terri’s brain, but she suppressed them, still embarrassed over her verbal faux paus. “If you think it is safe, Hunter and I are all for it. We’re already bored with the amenities at this rustic establishment.”
Bishop signaled for the two cowboys to stop several feet from the entrance. “Be right back,” he announced, moving past them to help Terri pack their meager belongings.
“Do you trust them?” Terri whispered as he walked by.
“Not for a second,” the Texan replied, bending to refill his pack with the items Terri had scattered around the nook. “But it’s the lesser of two evils, I suppose.”
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 didn’t fire, instead lowering the weapon and barking, “Shit!”
“I just messed up, didn’t I,” Terri confessed, arriving at his side, watching the two horsemen grow smaller in the distance. “I guess I should have kept an eye on them while you were packing. I just didn’t realize….”
“It’s okay,” Bishop mumbled, “I should have been more specific. It’s been a while since we’ve worked together.”
“Well, at least you don’t have to pack up just yet.”
“Actually, I think we’d better find a new place and do so quickly before it gets dark. They know where we’re camped now. They might decide to come back with more of their friends.”
Kevin stood in the pickup’s bed, scanning the logging lane with his high-powered optic. “See him yet?” Cory asked from behind the wheel.
“Nope. He’ll be along… you know dad.”
Grim, taking a knee 20 meters inside the tree line, was making sure nobody approached from the cover of the pines. “He’s late,” the ex-contractor observed, “which these days, doesn’t 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 Nick’s 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 Nick’s team was happy to see their leader return as well, handshakes all around.
“I’d 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 I’ve got about 40 guys tracking me, and I don’t think they’re 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. That’s when the road got a little rough.”
Kevin, his gaze fixed in the direction his father had come, was worried. “Seriously, Dad? You’ve got that many men trying to kill you? We better get you out of here, and right away.”
“No, son, that’s not how we’re 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 village’s women grated on Rocco’s nerves. The anger of the men only amplified the leader’s 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 wouldn’t have to work the fields and could stay in the classroom.
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 village’s 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 tree’s 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 h
omes? We are undeserving of this bad fortune.”
Concise thought would have concentrated Rocco’s 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 Javier’s 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 enemy’s 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 whores, the ones who had birthed such scum, 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 wasn’t 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 Javier’s mother wail. Our hearts demand blood, and we’re not going to find it here. Are you with us?”
