Holding Their Own: The Salt War (6 page)

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 homes? 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?”

“Let me get my rifle,” Rocco replied coldly.

Samuel Culpepper scanned the corral with a pessimistic eye, a worn and dusty boot perched on the lowest rung of the gate. One of his most robust stallions limped by, the midnight-colored animal having pulled up short two days ago.

They lacked in horseflesh, beef, ammunition, and manpower. “This ain’t no way to run a war,” the ranch’s owner mumbled.

“I can’t argue that, Mr. Culpepper,” Whitey responded, the foreman’s eyes studying the same lame steed. “But sometimes you go to the war, and sometimes the war comes to you. We’re holding our own, sir.”

Maybe
, thought Culpepper.
Maybe not. We sure have buried our share of good men.

Their conversation was interrupted by the lookout on top of a nearby outbuilding. “Men coming in… at a gallop,” the shouted communication warned.

All around the area, the hired hands scrambled, dropping bales of straw, bags of feed, and other common items associated with a working ranch.  In a few moments, wire cutters, shovels, and hand tools were replaced with rifles and shotguns.

“Two men,” informed the lookout, now scanning the approaching riders with large binoculars. “It’s Reed and Hutch! Stand down! Everybody stand down!”

“What the hell are they doing coming in from that direction?” asked Mr. Culpepper, not really expecting Whitey to know. “How come they didn’t give the signal?”

“No idea,” the over watch replied. “Given the wear and tear they’re putting on those horses, something has to be wrong.”

A few minutes later, the riders were careened inside the compound, pulling back hard on the reins to stop their animals in front of the boss.

Reed started talking as he dismounted, “We were bushwhacked by a stranger,” the man began reporting in a rushed voice. “Those shots we heard earlier this morning… it was some guy and his wife and kid. He claimed the Tejanos ambushed their truck.”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down, son,” Mr. Culpepper said. “What the hell are you talking about?”

At a more manageable speed this time, Lefty and Hutch relayed the story of Bishop getting the drop as they rode past, followed by a recounting of what the outsider had told them.

The old rancher rubbed his chin, pondering at his own pace. “What did you say this man’s name was?”

“Bishop,” Hutch replied. “His wife’s name was Terri. Do you know them, sir?”

Mr. Culpepper turned to Whitey, “Last time you went to the market at Meraton, wasn’t there some guy there who had just killed a bunch of outlaws? Wasn’t his name Bishop?”

“Yes, sir, sure was. He was a very capable hombre according to the local gossip.”

“Must be the same man, Mr. Culpepper. This fella got the better of us easy as pie. His rifle barrel wasn’t wavering none, either. Cold, cold eyes on that fella,” Hutch added.

“He looked like one of those soldier pictures I saw once up at the Alpha recruiting station,” added Reed. “He had stuff all over his chest and fancy accessories on his rifle.”

Culpepper chuckled, “So how did you manage to get away from this superhero?”

“He took us back to the encampment where his wife and kid were holed up. They turned their backs on us, and we high-tailed it out of there. He had them sheltering inside one of those cuts in Windy Ridge.”

Whitey stepped forward, leaning in close to the boss and speaking in a hushed tone, “We could use a man like that about now, Mr. Culpepper. He probably has some friends in Meraton that might further our cause. Sounds like he’s good and pissed at the Tejanos.”

The old rancher hooked his thumbs in his pants pocket, his regard far away in thought. “Whitey, take a few of the boys and go bring them in. Maybe this bad ass named Bishop will appreciate his wife and child having a roof over their heads tonight.”

“Shit!” Terri hissed, pausing to massage her stubbed foot. “I can’t do this at night, Bishop. We have to find someplace soon, or I’m going to break my neck.”

Her husband was obviously frustrated, the couple having wandered through the darkness for the last hour. Even with his night vision, their chances of finding suitable shelter in lowlight conditions were slim.

“I knew better than to try and find a hide in the dark,” he whispered back. “But we didn’t have any choice. Here, let me show you how to do this again. It helps.”

Throwing the small lever that detached the NVD monocle from his rifle, Bishop passed the device to his wife. “You look through it and map out 10 steps. Visualize it your mind… memorize each footfall. Then repeat after you’ve walked that short distance. Try it.”

Terri did as instructed, lifting the small optic to her eye and peering through. The world surrounding her suddenly became brighter, the landscape painted in glowing hues of black and green. “Why can’t I just walk using this?” she asked in a quiet voice. “That would make it much easier.”

“Because I need to use it to scout around. If we take turns and use our memories, we can move at a good pace and…”

Bishop stopped, the whinny and snort of a horse causing him to go on full alert. Terri heard it, too. After scanning their surroundings with the scope, he motioned Terri to a small space between two rocks. He was pleased that her rifle was already in her hands.

Putting his mouth right next to Terri’s ear, Bishop whispered, “Stay here. Don’t move. I’m going to see what’s out there. Don’t shoot me when I come back.”

Terri wanted to protest, a hundred questions racing through her mind.
How would she know it was him?
What if Hunter cried out?

But he was gone, vanishing like a ghost into the blackness. “I hate it when he does that,” she mouthed to a sleeping Hunter. 

Rocco heard the horse too, the raiding party and he working their way through towards the Culpepper ranch. Their hastily formed plan was simple enough. They were hoping to catch a sleeping sentry or unaware guard. If they could get close enough, with the element of surprise, they could inflict some real damage onto their foe. If nothing else, they would cause the Salineros to lose some sleep.

The thought of riders being out at night was worrisome. It was particularly rare to skirmish after sunset, the majority of the war being conducted during daylight hours. Had his enemies come to the same conclusion – deciding to escalate as well? Were they upping the ante?