Holding Their Own: The Salt War (2 page)

“So, I suppose now is a bad time to talk about my plans for a second honeymoon?” he replied sheepishly.

The remark elicited a growl of frustration as Terri reached for a nearby pebble. The projectile bounced harmlessly off of Bishop’s body armor, but the point was made. “I suppose not,” he mumbled, reaching for his pack.

He began pulling items out of the large ruck, hoping a quick inventory would improve his spouse’s mood.

It did not.

Bishop’s bug out bag had been carefully stocked to keep him alive for several days. Missing were the items for Hunter.

“We can tear up my spare shirt and pants for diapers,” he offered, trying to improve Terri’s outlook. “I’ve got two MRE’s (meals ready to eat), with potatoes. We can mash and squash parts of those for Hunter to eat. I’ve got my water filter – I just have to locate some water.”

“Bishop,” she interrupted, “How long before someone comes looking for us?”

Sighing, the Texan peered down, suddenly finding his boots very intriguing.

“Bishop?”

“Well… probably three or four days,” he shyly answered. “Maybe a bit more.”

Terri shook her head,
obviously
unhappy with the response. “Why so long? What did you tell Nick about this little endeavor before we left?”

Bishop’s words tumbled out rushed and apologetic. “I was only doing it for you… for us. You were so stressed after Galveston and the hurricane. You seemed frustrated with having your security guys around all the time. We haven’t spent any time alone for almost a year… and… and I just thought we might….”

Terri’s fists maneuvered to her hips as he rambled on, her head tilting with “the look.”

“Okay. I fucked up,” he confessed. “I told Nick I was going to take you to this canyon I knew about – a picturesque little nook on the Rio Grande. I let him in on my plan… that we were going to camp for a while. Swim in the river… you know… vacation stuff. I told him not to worry if we didn’t show up at Fort Bliss for a few days.”

“And the provisions we were carrying in the back of the truck?”

“That was our camping gear, extra food, and supplies for Hunter. I had the church ladies pack five days of whatever they thought he needed.”

Bishop lowered his head, chin resting against his chest. “I just wanted to spend some time as a family. Just the three of us. Like regular people.”

“Great,” she replied, spinning in a small circle with her arms spread wide. “This is just great. So now we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere, with practically nothing to survive on. We’ve got a bunch of people shooting at us, and no one even knows where we are, let alone having any reason to start a search. Wonderful.”

“We’ve got each other,” Bishop ventured, his tone soft. “We’re all here and alive.”

Something in his words resonated with Terri, a realization that her husband’s heart had been in the right place. She went to him, wrapping her arms tightly around his back in a snug embrace. “I’m sorry. I know this wasn’t what you had in mind. You’re right; we are together, and that’s all that really matters.”

Bishop pulled her head against his breast and kissed the crown of her hair. They held each other for several minutes, the stillness of the desert providing a relaxing backdrop. Bending slightly lower to whisper in his wife’s ear, Bishop prodded, “Now about that second honeymoon….”

Rocco pulled a handful of diapers from the cardboard box, displaying the bounty for everyone to see. “Shit! This is bullshit!” he spouted. “We lost Javier over diapers? A tent? Baby food?”

“I don’t think these people were soldiers,” one of the older men stated, peering into the bed of Bishop’s truck.

“How were we to know?” someone else asked.

Rocco didn’t answer, his scrutiny fixed toward the elevated rise where the truck’s occupants had fled. “No matter,” he announced, turning back to his patrol. “Take whatever we can carry. Sometimes in a war, there are innocent casualties.”

“Tell that to Javier’s mother,” the old man mumbled, shaking his head.

Stepping in, Rocco grabbed the man’s shirt, balling the material in a commanding grip and drawing the complainer close. “I am growing tired of your constant complaining, old man. You bitch and moan, yet I don’t hear you offering any solutions. I would advise you to keep your mouth shut.”

Fire filled the elderly man’s eyes, but his ancient frame was no threat to the younger, stronger Rocco. “Beat me if you will,” he hissed. “Shoot me and leave me to die in the desert if you must. But I’m not going to change my voice. This fighting is wrong. There has to be another way.”

“Again, no suggestions,” Rocco declared to the men now circling around the conflict. “We have tried talking until our lungs were exhausted. We made every attempt to trade and barter, and all we received in return were more demands and higher tariffs. Our people are starving. The village council made its decision. The only choice was to take up arms.”

“They made that decision based on your bullying,” countered the old timer.

For a moment, the throng of men thought their leader was going to strike the naysayer, but he didn’t. Waving off the remark, Rocco pivoted and demanded, “Pack up what is useful. We’ll bury Javier with honor tonight.”

The men soon gathered, the body of their fallen friend resting nearby, the corpse a motivation to the sullen, angry members of the patrol. Others hefted the cardboard boxes from the back of Bishop’s truck, inventorying the contents. It was another hour before the rumble of the bus sounded across the quiet, desert landscape.

The dilapidated, old Chevy finally rattled over the nearest rise, its blue and yellow paint faded and weary. It was the only vehicle in their village that would transport so many, and soon the men were loading boxes and hefting the body of their fallen comrade inside.

Bishop’s truck was secured with a tow rope; the shot-up hulk would be pulled back to the village on its rims and cannibalized for parts or anything else of value.

Once inside, the old man shuffled up the aisle and selected a seat beside his leader. Over the bus’s less than quiet muffler, he gently pressed Rocco for resolution. “So if those gringos weren’t coming to fight with the Salineros, who do you think they were?” he asked in a conciliatory tone.

“There is no way to know,” the leader replied. “The only thing we can be sure of is that they weren’t coming to help us Tejanos, and that’s all that matters.”

“So many have died in this war, Rocco. So many wives and mothers mourn over something so simple as salt. It is a shame, but I should not have confronted you in front of the men.”

“We both know this is all about more than just salt. The Salineros lord that mineral over our heads to control us. We need salt to survive, my friend,” Rocco replied calmly, his voice indicating acceptance of the apology. “When everything went to hell, we lost so many. Our food spoiled, and the well water went bad. Only a modest amount of the crystalline mineral would have saved so many. We must have salt for our people to survive. The Salineros know this… they know we can’t live without it, and yet they try to rob us blind for a resource that simply lays on the ground.”

“But they believe it is their land and their salt. The gringos have always thought that way. They have held close the concept of individual ownership over all other things, including the wellbeing of their neighbors. The Comanche couldn’t understand that way of living either… of personal property, or owning a hunk of the earth. I don’t agree with it, but no one should be surprised that they fight to protect what they believe is their God-given property.”

Rocco surveyed the passing desert through the dust-covered window glass, bored with what seemed to be an endless debate. He, like the majority of his village, was beyond questioning the justification of the war. Now, his mind was occupied with the burden of leadership and the goal of winning the conflict. It was the only path he could see to end his people’s plight.

“Not long ago, after the trucks stopped coming to the village, five pounds of salt cost a pound of meat. Then the Salineros raised the price, doubling the amount we had to pay. Next, they wanted ammunition, tequila, tomatoes, and corn. Our people were already starving, but we traded and suffered while they sat back, hired more guns, and grew fat. Our children worked in the fields with their ribs sticking out while the gringos were stockpiling the results of our labor. And still it wasn’t enough. Do you remember, Señor? Do you recall the night they raided the village and took the girls?”

The old man grimaced, crossing himself and mumbling. “God help their souls.”

“That was the end of my rope,” Rocco whispered, touched by the memory. “That night changed so many of us. Before, I was a peaceful farmer, and now I carry a gun to kill men.”

Bishop knew water was the key to his family’s survival. His Camelbak held a few quarts, the two additional plastic bottles in his pack doubling their supply. But that wasn’t nearly enough, especially considering the bone-dry, hot desert terrain.

Food wouldn’t be an issue right away, the emergency MREs sufficient for at least 3-4 days if they were careful.

Keeping vigil at the opening of their shelter, he watched patiently as the shadows grew longer across the valley below. Any concern over pursuit had vanished long ago; now he was waiting for the light and heat to fade so he could scout the surrounding territory.

“I’m going to do a little exploring,” he informed Terri. “There might be a huge shopping mall right over this crest, and we’d never know it.”

His wife grunted, pointing to a sleeping Hunter. “Be sure to check out aisle 4 while you are there and see if they have some diapers.”

“Seriously,” Bishop continued, “We’re going to have to make a decision very soon. I don’t know this area at all, and we are either going to have to stay put and wait for someone to come looking for us or try to walk out.”

“I don’t like either option,” she responded, “but I do understand that we have some hard choices ahead of us.”

“I’m going to circle our little hacienda, no more than a half mile in any direction. If there’s water nearby or some other sign of civilization, then we can form a plan around that. If not, then at least we’ll know. You need to keep watch while I’m gone - just in case.”

Terri nodded, kissing him on the cheek. “How will I know it’s you coming back in?” she asked, hefting her rifle.

“Do you remember our signal when we were staying back at the ranch?”

Smiling, she nodded. “You would throw a rock onto the camper roof. It used to scare the crap out of me, but then I was always so relieved that you were home and safe.”

“That seems like a lifetime ago,” Bishop replied, his tone reminiscent. “This is going to sound funny, but in a way, I kind of miss those days.”

Terri considered her husband’s remark. “Really? I remember both of us losing weight like crazy, worrying about where we would get our next meal. Hunter was on the way, and we didn’t know how we were going to fill another stomach.”

“Yes, but we were together. We were fighting our way through side by side. I don’t know… I felt closer to you then. That’s part of the reason I dreamed up this stupid vacation scheme.”

She walked over to her mate, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I remember all those candles you sat out at Christmas and the reflection on the water. That was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”

Bishop returned her embrace, his hands circling to the small of her back and drawing her close. “I’ll never forget that peppered bacon you somehow found in the market. Damn… that was about the best gift ever.”