Holding Their Own: The Salt War

by Joe Nobody

  The Texan knew what the man was experiencing. Fighting was damn thirsty work. Any loss of blood made things more desperate. The body would be working hard to replace its fluid, and that meant water. Bishop had been there – far too many times.

  Again, the raspy voice begged for a drink. Frustrated, almost crazy with worry about Terri and his son, Bishop stepped to the prone man and took a knee. His hand reached for the fighting knife strapped to his chest rig, palm closing around the weapon’s familiar tang.

  But he couldn’t do it. It just wasn’t right.

  “Open your mouth,” he whispered, changing his grip from the knife to his water-tube. The wounded fellow’s eyes opened, but his lips remained tightly pursed. “Open your mouth,” Bishop repeated, his voice louder than intended.

  Finally realizing what was happening, the guy did as Bishop instructed. After squeezing the bite-valve, the Texan watched as a small stream of clear liquid dripped into the fellow’s mouth.

  Bishop let him have three mouthfuls before turning off the supply. The man managed a half-smile and then closed his eyes again. Bishop moved back to watch the entrance.

  While she had no way of knowing, Terri was less than 50 feet away from her husband. When the fighting had erupted, she’d pushed Hunter as far back into the shallow crevice as possible, placing her own body between her infant and the battle that raged nearby.

  Fighting off muscle cramps and thirst, she refused to move for over an hour, terrified that a stray bullet would end her son’s life.

  A half dozen times she thought Bishop was coming back, each instance allowing momentary relief, but then resulting in disappointment. The footfalls of someone running nearby offered her hope, until the sound scampered right past the entrance to her nook. Another time she heard whispering, only to realize a few moments later that the dialogue was in Spanish. The anticipated joy of her husband’s return quickly morphed into sheer terror as she realized how close the battle seethed.

  She had to do something… anything. Hunter, snuggly wrapped in his father’s shirt, was awake and wide-eyed, but didn’t cry. Terri was thankful for that small miracle. She opened the last bottle of water, drinking a portion herself, holding the opening to her son’s lips and offering him little tastes. More dribbled down his chin than was swallowed, but she was convinced he had managed to consume a little.

  Almost two hours had passed since the shooting began, the ebb and flow of the battle swirling all around her. Terri experienced a rollercoaster of emotions, one minute convinced Bishop had been killed or wounded, the next believing her husband was probably nearby, dispatching evil men who ventured too close to his family. The not knowing was the worst.

  At three hours, she decided the pitch of the firefight had definitely lessened. More than once she considered gathering up Hunter and making a run for it. But where would you go, she reasoned. You have almost no water, food, or ammo.

  Staying put was the only choice.

  Again, the sound of someone running came to Terri’s ears. Please be Bishop, she thought, just as a man flew into the crevice, almost crushing her against the stone face. It wasn’t her husband.

  The intruder was soon joined by a second man, the space much too small for two adults, let along three and a baby. It was obvious the two new arrivals were taking cover, both of them looking back toward the opening as if being pursued. It took an entire second before they realized they weren’t alone. “What the hell?” a male voice hissed. “Who is…. What? It’s a woman.”

  Terri was desperately struggling to reach for her pistol at the same time as shielding Hunter from the crush of human flesh.

  Reed realized what the woman was reaching for, his arm moving to block her draw. She started to cuss, “Get your fucking hands off of me you son of a bitch or I’ll….”

  “Shhhhh,” he pleaded, moving his dirty, sweaty palm to cover her mouth. “You’ll get us all killed. Now hush,” he barked.

  Outmatched and trying to protect Hunter, Terri didn’t have much choice. She nodded, badly wanting the intruder’s filthy hand out of her face.

  Just as he removed the gag, the commotion of several running men came echoing into the hole. Terri could sense her two roommates tense, the fellow closest to the opening trying to push further back and out of sight.

  Terri couldn’t see a damn thing outside the nook, two large bodies between her and the open spaces beyond. But she could hear and realized that at least three other people rushed by, hustling at a rapid pace as if they were chasing someone. Or being chased.

  A minute later, her two guests relaxed. Shortly after that, the outside man chanced a glance right and left around the opening. He ventured out, finally allowing Terri enough space to breathe freely.

  “Whitey,” the man next to Terri said just above a whisper. “This is Bishop’s wife. The woman with the baby.”

  “Where’s your husband?” came the soft response.

  “I don’t know. He left to scout ahead right before all the shooting started. He told me to stay put.”

  “Lady,” began Reed, “You can’t stay here. The Tejanos have gotten the better of us tonight. If they catch you and that infant, they’ll kill both of you right on the spot. Come with us back to the ranch. We can get more men and search for your husband after it gets light. Mr. Culpepper sent us back here to retrieve your family. You’ll be safe there; I promise.”

  Terri didn’t want to go. She expected Bishop to come back any minute, and the thought of leaving him behind was simply unworkable. But then she thought about Hunter. The child wouldn’t be quiet forever, and what if Bishop didn’t come back for a long time? How would she care for Hunter alone in the desert? And besides, wouldn’t her capable mate know to come looking for her at the ranch?

  She also realized that even if her husband was injured in the battle, there was little hope of finding him until daylight. How would she mount a search in the dark and still keep Hunter safe? No, she told herself, the odds would be better with a large group of armed men after sunrise.

  “Okay,” she finally conceded, hefting Hunter in one arm, her rifle in the other. “Lead the way.”

  Chapter 4

  Gradually, Bishop noticed he could see further into the boulders as dawn approached. There hadn’t been any gunfire for over an hour, and he was eager to reunite with his wife and child. It had been an exhausting, brutal night, the need to remain diligent while worrying about his family taking a toll on the Texan.

  His patient was now sitting upright, slowly recovering from what proved to be an egg-sized knot on the back of his head. The two minor gunshot wounds weren’t contributing to the man’s recovery. Twice throughout the night, Bishop had provided the fellow water. On the last occasion, he’d handed the silent man two anti-pain tablets. It was the best he could do, given his limited kit.

  Deciding it was light enough to move out, Bishop turned to his unspeaking canyon-mate and bid his farewells, “Good luck,” he offered, before turning to leave.

  “Wait,” came the reply, “If you help me, I will help you.”

  “So you can speak,” Bishop answered. “And exactly how do you propose to help me?”

  “You are the man from the pickup truck yesterday – right? You are going to retrieve your wife and child – right?”

  Bishop nodded, wondering how this fellow could possibly know those details.

  “My name is Rocco. I am the leader of the Tejanos. If you help me back to my people, I will guarantee your safe passage out of this valley. We will try to repair your truck and return it to you, but I can’t promise that our attempt will be successful - it was significantly damaged.”

  Bishop, nodding his head, acted like he was considering the offer. He stepped closer to the man, taking a knee beside him. Like a diamondback striking prey, his knife was out and against Rocco’s throat.

  “You low-life piece of shit,” Bishop growled, “You almost killed my wife and son. You shot up my pickup for no good reason. Why shouldn’t I sho
ve this blade through your neck and watch you choke on your own blood?”

  Rocco stared into Bishop’s eyes, knowing instantly that this man would indeed kill him without remorse or hesitation. He’d never seen any creature’s stare so cold and uncaring.

  “We didn’t know, Señor. I swear this. We thought you were mercenaries and hired guns driving to join the Salineros. They have been butchering our people for months. That is why we attacked you.”

  “And so now we’re comrades? Now you’re going to promise my safety? I’m having a little problem with trust, my friend.”

  Rocco nodded, the motion causing him to grimace in pain. “My forces won the fight last night. I know this because the Salineros only ride horses, and I’ve not heard any hooves for hours. My men may have already found your wife and son. Perhaps they will catch you looking for them, and more people will perish due to misidentification. I think you need me, Señor. I am convinced we need each other.”

  Bishop pulled the knife away, but didn’t return it to the sheath. He had to admit, the man had a point. “Okay, friend. I’ll help you back to your people. But know this – if you betray me, you will die first. Do we have an understanding?”

  “I know you’re not my enemy. You gave me water and tended to my wounds. If you were truly working for Mr. Culpepper, you would have shot or stabbed me many hours ago. I have no reason to betray you.”

  Bishop helped the man to his feet, the wound in his calf the most limiting factor to mobility. With one arm draped over Bishop’s shoulder, they proceeded out of the mini-canyon and into the valley of boulders.

  Given Rocco’s hobbling pace, their progress was slow. After traveling for only a few minutes, a voice called out in Spanish, “Look! Look! It’s the jefe; he survived!”

  Two men approached at breakneck speed. “Ask them if they’ve spotted my wife and son,” Bishop said.

  Both men indicated they had not found anyone matching the general descriptions of Terri or Hunter. Nor had they found the bodies of a woman or child.

  Bishop listened to the excited exchange between Rocco and his men. After it became clear that they were no longer discussing Terri and Hunter, he turned away to begin his search alone.

  “Where are you going?” Rocco asked, switching to English.

  “I’ve got to find my family,” Bishop replied over his shoulder, continuing to walk away.

  “There will be 50 men from my village here within the hour,” Rocco reported. “They are coming to recover our dead and wounded and to make sure the Salineros don’t retrieve theirs. Stay here with me, and I’ll have my men search for your loved ones.”

  Bishop shook his head, “No, thanks. I don’t want to wait. I need to know my family is okay.”

  “But, Señor, I’m afraid my comrades will shoot you on sight. It could happen.”

  Bishop was about to deny the offer a second time when a whistle sounded. Turning to ascertain the source, the Texan spotted a long column of armed men approaching, the point-man waving to Rocco.

  “And there they are now,” announced the Tejanos commander.

  It was a boy of no more than 13 who darted toward Bishop. He carried a rifle, secured across his back via a timeworn rope, the ancient, bolt-action Lee Enfield almost as tall as the lad.

  The kid didn’t say a word, instead holding an empty water bottle out for Bishop to see. The Texan recognized it immediately as the one he’d given to Terri. “Where did you find this?” he asked.

  The young fighter pointed and then motioned for Bishop to follow. It was only a short distance away, the site looking completely different in the light of day. Still, the Texan was pretty sure it was the same nook where he’d left his wife and son during the night.

  “We also found this,” offered a nearby man, holding up Bishop’s spare shirt.

  After checking the cloth for blood, Bishop examined the sand in the bottom of the crevice. No crimson there either. The area was far too trampled to detect any footprints.

  “Where would you go?” Bishop whispered, trying to put himself in Terri’s shoes. Which direction would his wife travel to locate a safe haven from the skirmish? Would she have been able to choose her own route in the post-battle quiet? Or had she fled in the heat of the mêlée, choosing the path of least resistance available to her?

  A nearby commotion interrupted his thoughts, two men exchanging words with Rocco, their excited voices and exaggerated hand gestures announcing the exchange was something important.

  Turning to face Bishop, Rocco rambled to him. “Your wife is with the Salineros,” he said without fanfare. “Two of my men were chasing the cowboys when they spotted some unusual activity. They identified your wife, holding the baby, riding off with them just a few hours ago.”

  “Are your men sure?” Bishop asked. “How could they tell in the dark?”

  “Apparently, your son’s strong lungs are what initiated the ceasefire, Señor Bishop. My men tell me they were certain one of the riders was a woman, and the infant with her was crying.”

  “Shit!” Bishop snapped, his frustration coming to the surface. “How far away is the ranch?”

  Rocco stuck out his arm, placing a gentle hand on Bishop’s shoulder. “It is but a few miles, my friend. But even if you could find your way there, the Salineros would shoot you on sight. Even now, we are getting ready to retreat to the safety of our village. My scouts indicate the Culpepper militia is heading this way with almost 100 men.”

  “So?” Bishop offered, “I’ve got no quarrel with them.”

  Shaking his head, Rocco tried to explain. “That won’t matter. Consider the situation from their perspective, Señor. They are no doubt enraged by how badly we Tejanos injured their forces last night. They don’t know you. Even if you are very lucky, and they don’t shoot you on sight, they will ask many difficult questions of you. How will you explain avoiding capture? How will you describe surviving the night? They are not likely to believe you accomplished these feats without our help. In their minds, you are guilty by association.”

  Again, Bishop had to admit the man had a point. It was easy to visualize the gathering army of angry cowhands, howling for revenge over friends lost in last night’s conflict. They wouldn’t be a friendly bunch, which typically resulted in few questions and quick trigger fingers.

  “Come back to the village with me, Señor. There’s nothing you can do for your wife and child at the moment. While I cannot say for sure how the Salineros will treat her, I doubt Mr. Culpepper will view a woman as a credible threat. For now, I can’t see where you have any choice but to return with us. To approach the ranch without a plan would be certain suicide. Where would your little family be then?”

  Bishop stared toward the direction of the ranch, his heart resistant to the cruel reality of Rocco’s words. A swirling storm of thoughts flooded his consciousness, pitting logic against pure emotion. How can I even consider walking away from my soul mate and my son? He replayed the encounter with the two cowboys of the previous evening, some reassurance coming from the fact that he’d been ready to take Terri and Hunter to Culpepper’s ranch at that time. Now, they were there, albeit under completely different circumstances. Was that really such a bad thing?

  Yet, he was out of water, dead tired and had next to zero food. The sun would be at its zenith soon, the day promising to be a scorcher. He truely didn’t have any options.

  “Okay,” he answered, turning to Rocco. “Lead the way.”

  Nick hit the trail at a dead run, his ears struggling to separate the pounding of his own boots from any possible pursuit. They were back there; he just didn’t know how far.

  He’d been after water, kneeling beside a small stream to fill his “dirty” canteen. Later, when time and location allowed, he’d boil the liquid and refill his Camelbak for drinking. Evidently, the watering hole had been a popular destination, several men appearing along the opposite bank less than a stone’s throw away from his position.

  Tucking his carbine in th
e crook of his elbow, the big man lowered his chin and focused every fiber of his being on pumping his legs. Distance was life.

  For a man with a pack, weapon, load vest, armor, and boots, his first hundred yards would have impressed a professional football scout. It's amazing how the fear of capture and torture will motivate a man, he mused.

  Reassured by the absence of bullets zipping past his fleeing body, he slowed the pace. This was going to be a marathon, not a sprint – he needed to conserve.

  The foliage of the surrounding pine forest grew denser, low branches and the occasional bush prompting him to duck, cut, and leap. Nick didn’t mind; the concealment was more of an ally to the pursued than the pursuers. He knew where he was going; the men chasing him did not.

  Settling into a fast jog, the big man kept his pace measured and steady. The fact that he was running away from the only source of water in the area meant little at the moment – he just needed distance. If he survived the next 20 minutes, there would be time enough to stop, regroup, and make a plan.

  Of all the times for Bishop to decide he needs a vacation, he thought. He would have handled this contact differently. He wouldn’t be running for his life right now.

  For the third time he adjusted his angle of regress. His training from so many years ago kicked in, hammered into the brain of a younger, less-experienced soldier by hard-core instructors at Fort Bragg – when being pursued, never travel at 90-degree angles.

  The time and distance passed, Nick’s knees now sending a message, the level of pain from those joints competing with his lung’s unhappiness from a lack of oxygen. He started looking for a hide.

  It was almost two minutes before suitable terrain came into view. There was a cluster of trees ahead; four or five good-sized pines huddled together at the top of a slight ridge. He’d have cover, concealment, and the high ground. Another quick glance over his shoulder told the ex-Green Beret that no one was right on his heels.