Holding Their Own IV: The Ascent (22 page)

A few minutes later, Bishop slowed as they approached the crumpled wreckage of the small Cessna that had delivered
the colonel and his grandchildren a few weeks ago. “I need to stop here for a minute.”

Leaving the truck idling in the road, the two men exited and
examined the wreckage. To Bishop’s eye, the scene appeared undisturbed. He walked a few yards away and found what he was looking for—a small mound of rocks covering the shallow grave of Mrs. Porter.

Bishop lowered his head for a few moments, a show respect for the dead.

Looking back up at Nick, he explained, “Here lies Mrs. Porter. She was the colonel’s friend, and those druggies executed her right in front of the colonel and his grandkids.” Bishop then pointed to a high ridge in the distance. “I was up there watching the whole thing, but I couldn’t stop them.”

Nick, returning his gaze to his friend, could see the pain on Bishop’s face. “I’m sorry, Bishop. It’s always worse when you’re watching and can’t do anything. I’ve emptied many a bottle after losing friends. I was always trying to convince myself I wasn’t the one who fucked up.”

Bishop nodded, taking a few steps across the road and checking the remains of the two executioners. The desert scavengers had picked the corpses clean of any flesh, leaving the scattered bones of the two Colombian enforcers to bleach in the sun. Nick noticed a large bullet hole in the skull of one of the bodies, but didn’t comment.

After a moment, Bishop t
urned away, his voice low. “Those hombres paid for their crimes. I didn’t bury the bodies . . . there was little time and a lot of spite.”

It was a few seconds before Bishop’s mind returned to the present. “We had best get moving. The days are short this time of year. I really just wanted to make sure Mrs. Porter’s grave was still intact. It was a hasty effort.”

After the two men returned to the cab and began navigating toward Sandy Hill, Nick could sense his partner was in a funk. He decided to try and distract his comrade. “I noticed your CD collection. I was kind of surprised to see so much stadium rock from the 80s. I figured you for a ‘second British wave’ type of guy.”

Bishop took the bait, “
Hard to beat Page as a musician; he broke a lot of ground. I still think that overall, the quality was about the same—foreign or domestic.”

And
so, it was on. Nick pretended shock at Bishop’s position on the subject and quickly countered. As the miles sped by, the cab of Bishop’s truck raged with friendly debate. Topics ranged from the greatest rock guitarist of all time, to who was the best tank general in history.

They sped south for another 15 miles before Bishop slowed. Pointing to the southeast, he handed Nick the binoculars and
announced, “Sandy Hill is over that direction. You might be able to see the windmills from here.”

Nick raised the optic
to his eyes and scanned the horizon, finally centering on a distant point. “Found them,” he declared.

“Cool. So if I were the boss of the construction company, I would build the access road the shortest distance possible. This highway runs straight north and south, so we should find the path when the windmills are directly to our east.”

“That makes sense.”

Nick watched their position
, and before long Bishop slowed the truck so as not to miss any turnoff. On both sides of the highway, the desert began right as the pavement ended. There weren’t any utility poles, fences or mailboxes. Nick noticed the lack of civilization. “What’s the speed limit on this road? I’ve not seen a single highway sign since we’ve been driving.”

“There is no speed limit. The road dead ends at Big Bend National Park, another 40 miles further south. There’s a
border patrol inspection station on down, but other than that, there’s nothing out here. You can drive as fast as you want.”

“Damn, I
knew I should have taken the Porsche today.”

Off in the distance, Nick
noticed the parallel lines of a lane snaking through the desert. “Got it. I can see the path leading up to the summit. We’re getting close.”

A few miles further south, Bishop braked hard, bringing the truck to a sudden stop. “Almost missed it,” he
declared. After backing up a few hundred feet, Bishop pointed out the window.

Nick
identified two worn paths winding across the terrain, eventually merging into a single line in the distance. There wasn’t any road sign warning against trespass, or other indication of what lay beyond. Bishop turned the truck onto the lane and slowly began maneuvering toward Sandy Hill.

Pete closed the door and locked up the bar. Reaching up, he hung a small chalkboard sign on a nail, the scrawled message indicating the bar would open at 3 p.m.

The decision to close Pete’s Place and set up a table in the market had been driven more by curiosity than any financial consideration. Switching from pure barter to currency-based transactions was exciting—a sign of progress that he wanted to witness and be a part of.

For the first time in months, he was carrying actual money in his pocket, including coins. The bulk of the money clip felt odd against his thigh, the weight of a few coins noticeable in the opposite pocket.
Still
, he thought,
carrying a bit of cash around was much lighter than a box of goods to barter with.
It was an inconvenience he would gladly embrace.

He paused before beginning the stroll down Main Street, taking a moment to absorb the sights and sounds. As usual, the marketplace was bustling with pre-opening activity. Citizens of Meraton were setting up tables, unwrapping boxes of goods, and gossiping with their neighbors.

The outlying ranches and homesteads contributed as well. Horse-drawn wagons were common sights, hauling items that ranged from live animals to the crops from vegetable gardens. Some of the bigger outfits still had fuel, and they used pickup trucks to deliver everything from goat milk to freshly butchered sides of beef.

Sewing supplies were becoming a popular trade, months of wear and tear taking its toll on everyone’s wardrobe. The market now boasted two cobblers
- both offering not only repairs, but also leather moccasins, slippers, and even fancy boots as part of their storefronts.

Pete stood and took it all in, taking a moment to reflect on how special it all was. There hadn’t been any radio or television advertisements to draw the crowds. No newspaper ads had touted any specials, and coupons weren’t even a consideration. The market was a spontaneous result of society—of huma
nkind. Pete wondered how many of the transactions were born of necessity versus those being conducted simply as an excuse for social interaction.

Continuing his tour, the barkeep
passed tables offering a wide variety of goods. Books were a very popular item these days, both as entertainment and education. One crafty woman had set up an exchange of sorts —offering to accept trade-ins, sell on commission, and loan out for a fee. It was one of the most popular booths in the market. Pete’s mind immediately traveled to the motley assortment of items he had accumulated in trade during the last few months.
I might need to take advantage of this
, he considered.

The segment of Meraton’s population boasting a Latino heritage dominated a large percentage of the stalls. Before the collapse, a combination of financial status and tradition had often led to
a do-it-yourself mentality rather than relying on store-bought goods or services within their culture. Everything from small engine repair to sewing, canning, leather working, and traditional food preparation was part of their daily lives. Now, that knowledge was even more valuable, and the community was thriving because of it.

As he toured the street, Pete began to
watch for price tags. He had more than a few boxes of unused goods he wanted to sell today, and was hoping to get an idea of how much to charge based on what others were asking for their wares. There weren’t any prices displayed.

Stopping to chat with a few of the vendors, he realized the town’s decision to go with currency wasn’t being implemented
yet. “Pete, I don’t know how much to charge. I’m afraid to go first. I’m going to stick with barter right now until I get a feel for how much to ask for my candles,” commented one lady.

Another booth
owner, displaying a fresh crop of cherry tomatoes testified to a similar fear. “Pete, I only get a crop every few weeks. If I don’t trade for everything I need, I’ll be doing without until the next harvest. I have no idea how much to charge my customers.”

The conversation was interrupted by one o
f the Beltron ranch hands strolling up, a heavy looking burlap sack carried at his side. “Heya, Miss Sylvia, I’ve got a nice fresh batch of fertilizer for you. You okay with our normal trade?”

The woman nodded, scooping up a
quart-sized box of bright, red vegetables and offering them to the cowboy. He smiled and set the bag next to her stall, the aroma of cow dung drifting past Pete’s nose. After shaking hands with the man, Sylvia continued, “Pete, how much do I charge him for those tomatoes? How much should he charge me for the manure? We all went to the town meeting full of vim and vigor, but implementing the decision isn’t so easy.”

Betty’s voice sounded from up the street. “Pete, now don’t you go getting the ripe ones before I have my pick!”

Pete and Sylvia greeted Betty, the two women exchanging a hug.  “Oh, these look good, Sylvia. Nice and plump. Will you take our usual three eggs for a quart?”

“That depends on their size, Betty. How big are the eggs?”

“Oh, these are nice ones. Anita started feeding her chickens more corn, and it seems to be working.” Betty produced three brown eggs from her apron pocket, gently setting the valuable commodity item on the table.

Sylvia nodded, apparently happy with the rate of exchange and scooped up another box of tomatoes.

Pete shook his head, understanding the complexity of the problem.
You can lead a horse to water
, he thought,
but you can’t make him pay with the coin of the realm
.

Stroll
ing back with Betty, his voice was full of frustration over the situation. “Betty, I was so excited by the town’s decision to start using money. I even closed up the bar today in order to get rid of some of my prior trades. Now, I’m not sure we solved anything.”

Betty stopped for a moment, browsing a table full of sec
ondhand clothing. After smiling at the couple manning the stall, she continued walking with her friend. “Pete, someone needs to prime the pump. Someone needs to go first and establish a value. I’m not sure how to go about it, but that’s what everyone is waiting for.”

It was Pete’s turn to pause their discussion, stopping to check a booth displaying several dressed quail. The smiling man behind the table started his pitch, “I just shot them yesterday evening
, and they’ve been sitting in salt water ever since. They’re very tasty this time of year.”

“What are you looking for in trade, friend?”

“Well, sir, I’m running low on shotgun shells for one. I’d make a fair exchange if you’ve got any 12 or 20- gauge buckshot.”

Pete smiled at the man, “I’ve got four 20
-gauge shells of #7 shot someone traded me a while back. My shotgun is a 12, so I’d be willing to offer all four shells in exchange for two birds.”

The hunter thought for a moment and then shook his head, “No, sir. I wouldn’t feel right about that barter. How about a single bird for all four shells?”

Pete pretended insult, faked turning away from the booth—all part of his negotiation strategy. “There isn’t that much meat on those skinny frames, friend. Shotgun shells are few and far between. Before I walk away, let me ask you this. What caliber is your sidearm?”

The man nodded, patting his holster. “Yes, sir, I’ve a .38 special.”

“Well, now, that’s good news. I just so happen to have six unused .38 cartridges as well. Let me propose this, I’ll trade the four 20s and the six .38s for three birds.”

After a moment of consideration, a hand was offered. “You’ve got a deal, sir.”

Pete smiled and accepted the handshake. “I’ll bring the ammo back in just a few minutes. Please keep three of those fine birds aside for me.”