by Joe Nobody
Mr. Culpepper’s words took Terri by surprise. Before she could react, he stepped off the porch and moved with purposeful stride toward the barn.
The village of San Ignacio was a timeless settlement. Nestled along the winding Rio Grande, it was a quaint community of stucco, adobe, and mud-straw structures.
They had crossed the great river via one of the half-dozen foot bridges that connected Chihuahua, Mexico with the Lone Star state. The river was narrow here, dipping into sandstone canyons sometimes less than 50 feet in width.
Were it not for the waterway, it would be difficult to detect any international boundary. The long line of Tejanos had passed through nearly identical bergs on the Texas side, unincorporated places with names like Fort Hammond and McLeay.
To Bishop’s eye, the only difference between the settlements on either side of the waterway had been which pre-collapse flag had flown over the local post office. The people looked the same, as did the architecture, menus, customs, and churches.
Like every community in the world, San Ignacio had suffered during the fall of society. Empty homes, closed businesses, and thin residents were all in plain view.
“Our village hasn’t grown in over 50 years,” Rocco informed Bishop. “El Paso and Juarez to the north were like bright lights to the moth-eyes of our young. They saw opportunity there that didn’t exist here. Some of them eventually drifted back, longing for the slower pace of life - but just a few. The only ones who never ventured to the metro areas were those too poor to even chance life in the big city.”
Bishop nodded, “Our agricultural towns suffered the same problems. There used to be a saying, ‘How do we keep ’em down on the farm?’”
Rocco smiled knowingly, “When everything went to hell, many of our young people came back. The cities became even more dangerous – hostile, violent municipalities where there wasn’t any food. For a while, our village was actually indebted to the apocalypse… so many of the children and grandchildren returning to their families.”
It was understandable. In times of crisis, it was human nature to long for the security of home and family. He’d done exactly the same thing, leaving Houston to return to the land of his youth.
Bishop spied small patches of gardens and the occasional milk cow chewing slowly in the mid-day sunshine. There seemed to be chickens everywhere.
“I don’t get it, Rocco,” the Texan said. “You say you are fighting and dying for salt, but I see plenty of other food sources here. I know salt is important for storing meat and other preservation tasks – but do you really need it badly enough to die for?”
The Mexican laughed, slapping Bishop on the shoulder with an affable swat. “Come along, Señor, let me show you something,” he said, tugging Bishop’s arm toward a side street.
The two men walked less than a block, Rocco glancing at the small adobe homes dotting the dirt lane. Finally spotting what he was looking for, the big man stopped and shouted a greeting in Spanish, “Marco? Marco are you home?”
A small tangle of black hair appeared in the glassless window, nudging aside the wispy material that served as a curtain. Bishop could barely detect the eyes peering over the sill.
“Marco, come on out here. I have a friend I want you to meet,” Rocco continued.
A minute or so later, a reluctant figure showed through the doorway, clinging to the shadows as if he were scared of the rifle-toting gringo standing with the village’s leader.
“Come on now, boy. No need to be reserved. This is my new friend, Bishop. He is a great warrior from Texas… but a friend to the Tejanos.”
Finally, the lad appeared, Bishop estimating his age around 11, give or take. When the kid stepped through the threshold and into the light, Bishop couldn’t help but inhale sharply.
The child’s skin was blue. Not painted blue, or tattooed blue, but pigment deep, royal sky blue.
Throwing Rocco a questioning look, the Texan inquired, “Is this for some ceremony? A tattoo custom? I don’t get it.”
“It’s a side effect. Marco had tuberculosis, almost died from it. So did hundreds of others here and in the nearby villages. We treated it the only way we knew how – administering colloidal silver. For some people, the protocol turns them blue.”
Rocco tousled the boy’s locks and then urged him back into the home. The two men pivoted, returning to the main street and joining the still passing line of Tejano soldiers.
“Sorry to be so dense,” Bishop finally said, “but I still don’t get it. What does salt have to do with tuberculosis?”
“When the TB started spreading like wildfire and there was no help from Mexico City, we sought the only natural cure the elders could remember being effective. We sent men to reopen the old silver mines so we could extract small amounts of ore. But you need salt to refine silver, Bishop. Lots of salt. And that is why we have no choice but to fight.”
“Everyone looks pretty healthy to me,” Bishop noted, looking around. “I’ve not noticed any coughing or feverish looking folks. Have you turned the tide against the bacteria?”
The village leader nodded, “Drinking the colloidal silver doesn’t cure the bug. It only seems to put it into remission. We have over a thousand infected souls that will grow sick and surely die if we don’t keep supplying them the medicine. We have no alternative.”
Bishop stopped cold, his complexion going cold white with fear. “Are the people contagious while they’re drinking the silver water?”
Again, Rocco busted out laughing at his new friend. “No, Señor. We don’t believe they are.”
“What’s so funny?” Bishop asked, thinking his inquiry was completely legitimate.
“I’m sorry,” Rocco said, trying to keep a straight face. “The man who held a knife to my throat just a short time ago and looked at me with the devil’s own eyes. The same man shot his way out of my best ambush on the road. I just find it funny that a slayer such as you would be frightened of tiny, little bug-germs.”
Bishop got it, just a little embarrassed over his reaction. “Damn right I’m scared of tiny, little bug-germs. I’ll let you in on another secret – I’m scared shitless of my wife, too.”
Chapter 5
Sleep came easy on the bed covered with pima cotton sheets and a real comforter. Once Hunter had filled his belly full of rice and carrots, he had easily succumbed to deep slumber. With her tummy full and her son safely snuggled on a thick patchwork quilt, mother hadn’t taken long to join son.
She estimated it was late afternoon when the thunder of horses’ hooves awakened her. Hunter was sprawled on the floor beside her, wide-eyed and content with new surroundings. After a quick diaper change and splashing a handful of water across her face, Terri hurriedly pulled a brush through her hair and made for the back door. She was curious, bored, and wondering if the ranch’s men had found Bishop.
One look from Whitey told her they hadn’t. That was the bad news. “We didn’t find his body either,” the foreman advised, trying to emphasize the positive. “And as usual, the Tejanos only left with their own dead,” he said, pointing at several bodies draped over the horses’ backs.
Terri sighed, nodding her understanding of what the man was trying to tell her. “So you think the Tejanos have captured my husband – right?”
Whitey looked down, shuffling his boots in the dirt. “Yes, ma’am, I’m reasonably sure they did.”
“What does that mean?” Terri asked, not one single bit happy with the cowboy’s reaction.
“It means they’ll most likely kill him,” came Mr. Culpepper’s voice as he joined them. “Any of our men that have fallen into their hands have been executed. And I’m not going to lie to you, they didn’t die quickly.”
Terri’s face flushed with anger. “I need to get to Alpha… and I need to get there right fucking now. I will have 10,000 men with battle tanks and Apache helicopters hit that village in less than two hours.”
Both of the cattlemen simply stared at the irate woman next to th
em, her reaction predictable, but her words not making any sense. “Ma’am… Miss Terri… I know you’re upset, but…”
“Seriously, gentlemen. I must get to Alpha or Meraton or Fort Bliss… it doesn’t matter. I will bring down the wrath of hell on those people if they don’t let my husband go.”
Whitey was visibly shocked by the words coming from the polite, demure, young mother he’d rescued from the valley. Mr. Culpepper, on the other hand, tilted his head, intently studying his guest.
“It’s five days ride to Alpha from here,” the older rancher stated calmly. “Almost as far to Meraton. Even with my best horses, you’d never make it before your husband’s fate is sealed - one way or the other.”
“You don’t have any cars or trucks?”
Whitey snorted, shaking his head at what was apparently a naïve question. “We haven’t had any gasoline in six months.”
“Our truck…” Terri started.
“The Tejanos have your truck. And from what you’ve told me, even if they haven’t used the gasoline already, there’s no way we can go and bring the vehicle back here.”
“Is there a radio? A shortwave radio anywhere nearby?”
Mr. Culpepper was patient with his response. “I have CBs. We used them to communicate with the hands as they worked around the spread, but the last of the gas was used in our generator a long time ago. There’s no electricity, Miss Terri, and even if there were, the range of my equipment is very limited.”
Terri began pacing like a caged cat, the helplessness surging through her core something the leader of the Alliance hadn’t experienced in quite some time.
The whole predicament was all so stupid and meaningless. Less than two hours’ drive away, there were ample resources to resolve this dilemma, and she couldn’t access them because of a simple lack of communication.
It dawned on her that the entire range war at the root of this situation was just as senseless. People back in her world had access to salt. She didn’t know exactly where it was coming from, but one thing was for certain – no one in the Alliance was fighting and dying over the crystalline substance.
Culpepper and Whitey watched her pace, both men still digesting her response and words. Whitey came to the conclusion that she was just a loyal, loving wife having an exaggerated reaction. Mr. Culpepper wasn’t so sure.
After giving her a few minutes to walk off her surge of anger, the older man spoke. “Even if we could figure out a way to get a message through, what makes you so sure you could summon enough help to rescue your husband?”
Terri stopped mid-step, throwing her host a look that implied he’d just asked an incredibly dumb question. But then she caught herself, remembering where she was.
“I need to tell you a story, Mr. Culpepper. It’s going to be a little hard to believe, but true nonetheless,” she said sweetly.
Bishop chewed the last of the flatbread tortilla, the fried wrapper encircling a mixture of meat and cheese that was quite filling. He started to ask about the meat, but changed his mind. Some things were just better left to the imagination.
A deep yawn followed, the combination of a full stomach and lack of sleep taking their toll. Rising with the thought of finding a horizontal surface, he wandered outside of Rocco’s modest home hoping to find the village leader and discuss the matter of a cot or bed.
He was a stranger in the village, that fact made obvious by the short glances and occasional frowns from the locals. As he strolled along, Bishop couldn’t help but wonder if his race had anything to do with the unfriendly atmosphere. He’d seen a few other whites among the local Latinos, one of the soldiers mentioning that some of the local ranchers had sided with the villages on this side of the border.
A few of the men stared at his rifle and kit, probably wondering why Rocco was letting a strange gringo wander around their town armed. Others merely ignored Bishop, directing their eyes straight ahead.
After inquiring about Rocco’s whereabouts and being answered only with pointing fingers, Bishop soon discovered his host leaning against the bullet-ridden pickup.
There were several men gathered around, a few of them actually working on repairs. The entire picture further soured the Texan’s mood.
Trying to sound friendly, Bishop asked, “What’s the prognosis? Will she ever run again?”
Rocco shook his head. “Unknown at this time, Señor. If it is possible, I will keep my word.”
Another man approached, stepping from the back of the truck and rambling on in Spanish. Bishop could tell the conversation was about him, picking up a few words here and there.
Rocco and the new man verbally volleyed back and forth, quick bursts of conversation that sounded emotional, but not angry. Finally, the village’s leader turned to Bishop in an effort to explain. “He thinks I should just shoot you and take your equipment. He doesn’t understand why I’m helping you at all.”
Before Bishop could reply, several locals started to gather, the sheer numbers making the Texan uncomfortable. He decided to suppress the smart ass remark cued up in his throat. “And you said?”
Rocco grunted, then waved a dismissive hand through the air. “I informed my hot-headed friend that you had saved my life,” he said, pointing to the bandages and wounds. “I told them that I appreciated that fact and wouldn’t go back on my word.”
Bishop’s eyes darted from Rocco to the boisterous local, finding the Latino staring in a most unfriendly manner. The Texan swept the crowd, spotting several others who seemed to echo the threatening perspective. For what seemed like the hundredth time since embarking on the vacation, the Texan was having second thoughts about his decisions.
That realization was immediately followed by Mr. Hard Ass producing a knife, followed by a sneering grin and a guttural outburst of Spanish dialogue. The surrounding men all snorted and cackled their support.
“He said that he regrets not capturing your wife, Señor. He remarked at how luscious her ass looked as it was scurrying away from our ambush, and how he was sure after a few evenings of his company, she would regret having spent her time with a queer like you.”
Rocco started to move toward the challenging fellow, ready to quell the hostility. But Bishop’s words interrupted the effort. “Is this man important to you, Rocco?” came the icy-cold question.
Short term memories of Bishop’s knife being at his throat came back to Rocco, the leader’s eyes going to the fighting knife on Bishop’s chest rig. “No, as a matter of fact, he’s quite the pain in the ass. A second guesser of just about every decision.”
“Want me to fix that?” Bishop asked, his eyes never leaving the man with the knife.
Trying to play out what would happen if a fight did occur, Rocco didn’t answer immediately. Finally, scratching his chin, he said, “Well, I suppose it might help things in the long run. Do you have to kill him?”
“Probably.”
“I would never deny a man a chance to protect his honor, especially against another who speaks of a wife in this way.”
Bishop flipped the carbine around to his back and drew his own knife.
The move seemed to surprise Mr. Hard Ass, his gawking eyes dancing between Rocco and his friends. Much to the fellow’s chagrin, Rocco swept the ground between the two potential combatants as if to say, “Be my guest.”
Bishop sensed the man’s hesitation as well. “Tell him I won’t kill him if he drops the knife and admits that he’s only mad because his dick won’t get hard.”
After Bishop’s taunt was repeated in Spanish, several of the men laughed, which only seemed to enrage the antagonist. He charged.
There were only three steps between the two combatants, but the villager’s lowered head and Indian-like battle cry gave Bishop plenty of notice. The Texan side-stepped his attacker, having plenty of time to put a boot on the man’s ass as he passed. Laughter erupted from the growing throng.
That small flash of engagement made Bishop realize the foe he faced was an amateur. Whil
e there wasn’t any doubt of the fellow’s willingness to fight, it was clear he wasn’t professionally trained or all that experienced.
“Tell him to knock off this bullshit before he gets killed,” Bishop said to Rocco, never taking his eyes away from the now-circling villager. “Tell him he’s completely out of his league, and I don’t like one-sided fights.”
Again, Rocco’s voice sounded in the local dialect. Again, the local charged, this time slashing back and forth through the air with his blade.
But his arm was trying to sweep too wide, the arch of the swings taking too long to recover. Effortlessly timing the move, Bishop stepped into the man’s wheelhouse just after the blade had whooshed by. He could have easily driven his knife-edge into the man’s chest but didn’t. Three brutal rabbit punches slammed into the fellow’s face, each landing with head-snapping force.
The villager went down, and in a blink, Bishop was on him.
The Texan’s blade pressed hard on the beaten man’s throat, his knee pinning the shocked fellow’s knife-wrist to the dirt. “Ask him to repeat his words about my wife.”
Rocco did, but there wasn’t any response from the wide-eyed fellow at the tip of Bishop’s knife. “I don’t think he heard you,” the Texan growled.
Again, the village’s leader repeated the demand, the mandate accented by Bishop’s moving his blade just enough to draw blood and pain.
A torrent of frenzied Spanish erupted from the gentleman under Bishop; the tone of his voice made it clear the fellow was pleading.
Rocco laughed after the antagonist had finished his little spiel of retreat, as did several of the bystanders. “In summary, Señor Bishop, he says you must have completely misunderstood his meaning. He was trying to compliment your wife’s fine figure, and meant to imply that you and she were a perfectly matched couple.”