by Joe Nobody
At the edge of the angry mass, Pug turned and walked back toward the parking lot where he’d left his motorcycle. It was obvious what the crooked politician was doing. The Korean had seen it before.
He had been in town, helping the crew board up the pizzeria. Given the violence and anti-Brown rallies now taking place, Pete had decided to close rather than risk any of his employees getting hurt.
“I have to warn Bishop and Pete,” he whispered, kicking the bike’s starter with a powerful thrust.
Bishop heard Pug’s motorcycle well before the breathless man rushed into Pete’s Place. “What is he doing in Meraton?” the Texan mumbled.
The Texan had never seen his employee so animated or emotional. Listening to the breathless voice accented by curt gestures, Bishop soon understood why.
Just as Pug was finishing his account of the frightening events in San Antonio, Grim and Bailey arrived at the Meraton watering hole. The old warrior knew instantly something was awry.
Bishop informed his former teammates of the imminent visit by hundreds of enraged voters. “Bailey, go find a sheriff’s deputy and have him get the word out. Tell every able-bodied citizen you see to grab a weapon and meet here. After that, meet me over at the The Manor. We’ll load up my wife and kid and you can take my truck and get them to Alpha. Drive like the wind. Find Nick or Diana, and tell them everything you’ve just heard.”
“Yes, sir,” Bailey replied, hustling off to spread the word.
“What are you planning, Boss?” Grim asked, the frown on his face indicating he already knew.
“We have to keep those people out of Meraton and away from Alpha … at least until cooler heads prevail.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Grim muttered, hustling for the exit to help organize the citizens already arriving.
In small groups of two and three, the men of Meraton began gathering around Pete’s front door. As they arrived, Bishop began briefing each and every one. After hearing of the impending threat, a few rushed off to inform friends and neighbors.
Two sheriff’s deputies soon arrived, and after a quick briefing were now deeply concerned. Both knew Bishop’s reputation, one of the men having been part of the Mexican convoy’s security team.
“An angry mob armed with pitchforks and torches we could handle,” the lawman said. “But there is no way a couple of deputies can hold off a crowd of gun-toting, mad-as-hell city slickers after blood. This sounds like it is bigger than the two of us for sure,” the lawman admitted. “Do you have any ideas for containing this without fanning the flames, Bishop?”
“We can’t be positive of their intent,” the Texan stated. “Innocent until proven guilty is the high ground in this sort of encounter, but I also believe in a dose of prevention. We have to keep them out of this town.”
“How do we do that?” asked the younger officer.
Rubbing his chin, a smile quickly spread across the Texan’s face. “You know the bridge over Horsehead Gulch? I think the sheriff’s department just discovered that it was unsafe. Lack of maintenance since the collapse and all that. If that bridge is closed, it will force a six-hour detour.”
The two lawmen seemed to like the idea. “We need some sawhorses and cones,” the older deputy nodded. “Make it look as legit as possible.”
Bishop watched the duo of badges rush off, and then pivoted toward The Manor and his family. Butter and Kevin were on duty, protecting Terri and Hunter. Neither man liked the look on Bishop’s face as he approached her room.
Terri understood the gravity of Pug’s report instantly, “I better get Hunter out of here. Sounds like all hell is about to break loose.”
“Bailey is on his way over here to get you and the kid. Stay with him; he’ll take good care of you. Once you’re in Alpha, always keep the truck handy. If we can’t hold them here, they’ll burn Meraton and then head for Alpha. I want you and Hunter to be able to get the hell out of Dodge if they make it past us.”
Nodding, she said, “Come get us as soon as possible. You know I’ll be worried sick.”
After kissing his wife and child, Bishop hustled off to join the gathering crowd at Pete’s. Now it was the Texan’s turn to hop into the bed of a pickup so he could address those assembled.
“Look, folks, we don’t know what exactly is going to happen, so I want every man here to give me his word of honor – no one shoots until one of the deputies or I discharge a round. No matter what you hear … no matter what you see … nobody gets trigger happy. Agreed?”
Bishop received the anticipated response of agreement from the crowd.
Most of Meraton’s citizens knew Bishop. Even those that had never met the local legend had heard the stories.
Still, he thought it important to remind them. “Years ago, right after the collapse, I helped defend Meraton from a group of Columbian thugs. The men of this town proved their bravery that night, just like we will this afternoon. All that I ask is that every man here remembers that the people we’re about to face aren’t criminals, or invaders, or crooks. They are our neighbors and fellow Texans who have been sold a false bill of goods. They think we’re the black hats in this whole affair. Nobody needs to die over this … on either side. Does everybody understand?”
Again, the response was a controlled enthusiasm.
“Good,” Bishop continued. “Now, let’s get loaded up and out to Horsehead Gulch. Everybody bring enough ammo and water to last until this evening. With any luck, this will all be over by then.”
While the mobilization that followed wouldn’t make any military textbooks, Bishop was still proud of his friends and neighbors. One after another vehicle ... a parade of pickups, farm trucks, and even a flatbed semi rolled out of Meraton. All of them were full of armed men wearing serious expressions, everyday guys who waved goodbye to loved ones and secretly wondered if they would be coming home.
Turning to his old teammates, Bishop said, “I can’t order you guys to go along. You should probably head back to Alpha. I’m sure Nick will need your services.”
The three remaining members of SAINT One exchanged pained looks. “You also can’t order us to leave, either,” Grim announced. “I think we’ll serve the Alliance best by heading out to this half-assed roadblock you’re getting ready to throw up.”
Butter and Kevin nodded their strong agreements.
Bishop was touched by the loyalty the guys showed. “To be honest, I sure would be a whole lot more confident in our chances if you guys were along.”
“You’d probably have a whole lot more chance of not swinging from a tree,” Grim grunted. “And heavens knows, I’m certainly not going to explain that to Miss Terri. Come on, Bishop. If you need help getting that broken-down, retired body of yours into the truck, I’m sure Butter can give you a push.”
As they drove east along Texas 90, Bishop had to admit it was good being with his team again. Five miles outside of Meraton, they approached the bridge.
The strobing lights bathed the countryside in blue, both squad cars parked squarely in the middle of the road. Already the lawmen were setting out their sawhorses and orange cones. Someone had even found a “Bridge Out,” highway sign.
The vast majority of Meraton’s hastily gathered militia was milling about, watching the deputies with nervous anticipation. Bishop wasted no time.
Hopping up on the flatbed, he called the defenders over and began issuing orders. Using his hand like a cake knife, the Texan split the mass of onlookers into four sections. “You men over here, you go with Butter. He has a radio and can monitor the situation via the airwaves. He is in charge – understand?”
Grim and Kevin each received his own “platoon,” of 12-15 men, the remaining group reporting to Bishop.
The Texan then outlined the plan. “Everyone but my team is going to stay low in the gulch. Find a shady spot and relax. Listen to your SAINT leader. Do what they ask, and you’ll make it home for supper this evening.”
Bishop scanned the s
ea of eager eyes, making sure his words were acknowledged.
“My group will pretend we are the bridge crew. While I don’t expect any of you boys to actually pick up a shovel, we’ll stay behind the deputies and at least put up an initial pretense that we’re examining the structure. We won’t show any weapons but will keep them close by. Understood?”
Again, all of the gathered heads nodded in the right direction.
“Let’s do it then. Good luck to each one of you. I’m sure Pete’s will make a cold contribution for our sacrifice, and I look forward to toasting our success.”
The deputies finished just about then, both stepping to confer with Bishop. The Texan explained his plan and formation to both lawmen’s satisfaction.
“I would suggest one of you drive east till you’re just at the edge of radio range,” Bishop stated, nodding toward the two police cars. “That way we can get a scouting report as soon as possible. We can pull the semi up to block the road.”
The two cops agreed, the younger officer rushing for his cruiser and pulling away in a flash, the other deputy standing by for any broadcasts.
Now, it was simply a waiting game.
Bishop decided to spend the time double-checking his defenses.
He had no idea how Horsehead had gotten its name. As he stepped along the edge of the shallow trench, his initial observation was that the landmark was more of a ditch or gully than a true gulch.
The bed was bone dry, covered in the smooth, yellowish sand that dominated the surrounding desert. The nearly vertical walls weren’t all that impressive or noteworthy, barely four feet high at the crest.
It occurred to Bishop that Horsehead rarely saw enough water that it breached the gully’s edge. This section of Texas almost never endured strong, protracted periods of rainfall.
To the north rose the Christmas Mountains, gently sloping south into the Rio Grande valley. Eventually, Horsehead’s drainage would feed the great river. Bishop supposed that the occasional “gully washer” up in the foothills was to blame for drainage and runoff that had formed Horsehead and a score of similar formations throughout the area.
For their purposes today, however, the gulch was perfect.
A man could stand against the eastern bank with a rifle and have excellent cover as well as enjoy open fields of fire for nearly a quarter mile in all directions. While the banks weren’t deep, they were steep enough to foil even the most elevated 4-wheel drive. Without the bridge, there would be no crossing of Horsehead with a vehicle.
As he trekked along the rim, Bishop nodded, smiled, joked, and did his best to calm the nervous irregulars. Having Butter, Grim, and Kevin along helped.
While SAINT teams were known throughout the territory as professionals, Butter was a local celebrity who had thrilled many of the men surrounding him with his high school football and wrestling antics. Everybody knew Kevin was Nick’s son, and probably the best shot this side of the Pecos. Grim’s mere demeanor announced that he was a man who’d seen more than his fair share of gunfights.
“We’ll hold this ground,” Bishop whispered to himself after walking up and down the line. “We’ll do all right.”
Less than 45 minutes after the roadblock was in place, the remaining deputy received the dreaded transmission. “I have at least 30 vehicles of all shapes and sizes heading your way. All of them are chockful of men brandishing weapons. They don’t look friendly.”
“Get on back here,” ordered the senior officer.
“No problem. I was hoping you wouldn’t want me to execute a traffic stop.”
Bishop grimaced when he heard the report. “Damn,” was all the Texan could say. Then, almost as a second thought, he added, “Do you have any problem with my doing the talking while you guys provide backup? I think our ruse might be more believable if a civilian meets the vehicles stopped at the bridge.”
“Hell, no,” replied the now-worried lawman. “Knock yourself out.”
Taking a deep breath, Bishop began walking east, his eyes focused on the narrowing, black stripe of blacktop to his front.
Out of the distant haze rode the police car, rolling past the Texan as he halted his stride 50 yards in front of the roadblock.
Behind the police cruiser, Bishop spotted the line of approaching vehicles. Taking the lead was a pickup full of riflemen, followed closely by an assortment of transports that resembled the procession that had delivered the men from Meraton. It didn’t escape his attention that the convoy heading toward him was at least three times the size of the team of impromptu recruits he’d been able to muster.
Holding up his hand while standing directly in the middle of the road, Bishop was relieved when the pickup hit its brakes and began to slow. The hefty F350 Ford, sporting dual back rims to support its girth, stopped less than 30 yards in front of him.
Several men jumped from the back and approached the Texan.
“Good afternoon, guys. I’m sorry to piss on your parade, but the bridge is out. It’s not safe to cross. This road is closed.”
The agitators hadn’t expected this delay, Bishop’s announcement causing several of the approaching hotheads to pause and exchange questioning looks.
“And who the fuck might you be?” asked one of the braver vigilantes.
“My name is Bishop, and I live hereabouts. Today, I am volunteering for traffic control until the Alliance can get a maintenance crew out here to fix the bridge.”
Again, the Texan’s story seemed to confuse them. They milled about in a small cluster, grumbling in hushed murmurs amongst themselves until a louder, more authoritarian voice rang out.
“What is the problem?” sounded a troublemaker from back in the line.
Bishop spotted a new bunch of men approaching, Governor Young marching in front of the column. You looked much younger on your campaign signs, the Texan noted.
The presence of the politician wasn’t a huge surprise. It was the appearance of Captain K and SAINT Six that made Bishop’s blood run cold.
“Who are you?” Cyrus asked, drawing closer than any of the lower ranks had dared.
“His name is Bishop,” Captain K answered, now beside the politician. “He used to be in charge of a SAINT team.”
His bodyguard’s response caused Cyrus to pause, now less than 20 yards of pavement separating the lone Texan from the growing mob from San Antonio.
Bishop didn’t give the politician time to think, “This bridge is out,” he repeated, loud enough for all to hear. “It isn’t safe to cross. This road is closed.”
“He claims to be directing traffic,” added one of the others. “I think he’s full of shit.”
Tilting his head, Cyrus asked, “Why does a guy directing traffic need a battle rifle and all that gear?” he asked, nodding towards Bishop’s combat load.
Without missing a beat, Bishop’s eyes zeroed like lasers onto Captain Kilmore. “There are all kinds of snakes and other vermin around here. A man never knows what kind of low life he might encounter.”
A small huddle ensued, the men determined to reach Meraton clearly taken aback by Bishop’s line of crap. Less than a minute had passed before Cyrus decided to throw his political weight around and inspect the failing infrastructure. “Now, gentlemen. I am sure this Bishop fellow has only the best of intentions. In fact, given my position within the Alliance, I am compelled to personally examine the damage to[ei1] this bridge.”
Grinning, Bishop shook his head no. “Too dangerous,” he declared. “I couldn’t possibly let you take the risk, sir. My directive was to prevent anyone from getting near the thing. The engineers say it might collapse at any moment. I wouldn’t want to endanger anyone, and I certainly do not want to be responsible for any injury that might occur to someone of your standing, Governor.”
“Bullshit,” Captain K grumbled. “He’s lying right through his teeth.”
Waving his man to silence, Cyrus said, “I’m the president of the Alliance, young man. I order you … and those police officers back
there, to stand aside and let us pass. We’ll take our chances on the bridge.”
Shaking his head, Bishop kept his voice even as he replied, “No can do. First of all, it’s my understanding that the winner of the election hasn’t been determined just yet. Secondly, I just couldn’t live with myself if you fine gentlemen fell to the bottom of Horsehead Gulch. The loss of life might be tremendous if you try to pass.”
The lightly veiled threat wasn’t lost on Cyrus, Bishop’s words clearly angering the man. With a slight motion of his head, Bishop keyed his microphone. “Kevin, this is going badly,” he whispered. “Shoot Captain K first.”
“Roger that, sir,” sounded the kid’s reply. Bishop could almost see Kilmore’s outline in the crosshairs of Kevin’s scope.
“Belay that,” Bishop added, some voice of reason telling him not to let personal feelings cloud his judgement.
