Holding Their Own: The Salt War

by Joe Nobody

  “Shit,” Cory snapped. “I better get back to the park and pack up my stuff. I’ll do my best to deliver our little liquid package here, but now with all this going on, it is probably a long shot.”

  “It’s okay,” replied Dr. Hanes. “Our scheme will still work even if we only manage to spray the festival food. Do your best, but if it’s too risky, don’t worry about it.”

  Cory shook the hands of both men, pledging to see them soon. Tucking the small bottle of poison into the top of his boot, he exited the doctor’s home and made for the park.

  As expected, he found the local enforcers bullying the temporary residents of their camps. Moving quickly, so as not to draw their ire, he began folding up his tent and packing the few belongings he’d brought into town with him.

  Twice, one of the local goons had passed by, ordering him to hurry up and get out of town. Cory had just smiled, thinking about the man puking up his socks after he consumed the doc’s special sauce.

  And then he was hustling for the north gate with the rest of the visitors, everyone grumbling and cussing the town of Cartersville. Cory wished he could have let them know they were better off not being able to partake in the feast, but again, he kept his mouth shut.

  And then he was hiking along the same road where the bushwhackers had tried to rob him just a few days ago, wondering how he was going to make contact with Grim and Kevin.

  Not knowing what else to do, Cory headed for their camp, not expecting to find anyone there, but not relishing the thought of wandering around the countryside at night – alone and unarmed. If Grim and Cory didn’t show up pretty soon, it was going to be too late to seed the poison in the guard’s headquarters.

  It was almost dusk when he approached the abandoned home they’d been using to conceal the pickup. It seemed like a year had passed since they’d left Fort Hood, the four-man team excited over having a new leader and a new mission. In reality, it had only been 10 days, but to Cory’s bone-weary body and exhausted mind, much more time seemed to have passed.

  “SAINT, coming in,” he announced to the empty-looking abode that had been home for most of the mission.

  He found their truck undisturbed, Grim deserving credit for finding the excellent hiding spot. Cory found the secreted key, right where it should have been, and was soon pulling his weapon and radio out of the cab.

  The radio! Grim and Kevin still had their radios!

  He flipped on the still-charged device. Keying the mic, he said, “SAINT C to anyone. SAINT C to anyone. Do you read me?”

  His heart fell when no one responded immediately. He tried again.

  Finally, distant and riddled with static, he received a response. “SAINT C, this is SAINT N. Do you copy?”

  Nick! It was Nick’s voice he heard over the airwaves. The boss must be close.

  “Roger that, N. I read you.”

  “I’m two miles south of camp,” came the response. “I should be there in an hour, if the creek don’t rise.”

  “Copy, N. It will be good to see you. If you hear from K or G on the way in, let them know I need to talk to them ASAP. It’s critical.”

  “Copy that, C. Heat up some coffee for me, would ya?”

  “You got it, boss. C out.”

  Grim checked his watch for the tenth time, worry painted all over his face. Kevin and he had been late arriving at the rendezvous point; Cory had never showed. It weighed heavily on the temporary team leader.

  He had moved in as close to the blocked street as possible, switching his radio off so as not to give away his position, and save battery time. It never occurred to him to keep the transceiver operational. Cory hadn’t taken his communications device into town, afraid of getting caught with equipment would make him seem like anything but a poor, barely-managing traveler.

  Kevin was acting in his usual role as overwatch, guarding Grim’s flank with his high-powered rifle. The combination of their positions would make it nearly impossible for their teammate to slip through unnoticed.

  When Grim first spied a group of men walking away from Cartersville, the contractor relaxed. While he had no idea why Cory wouldn’t come alone, the fact that his man was safe eased the stress somewhat.

  But Cory wasn’t among the group.

  Before he could react, another small band of pedestrians appeared. What? Grim thought, we haven’t seen this much foot traffic since we’ve been here. Something is wrong.

  Knowing Kevin had his back made things easier. Rising from the shallow ditch that had been providing cover, Grim slung his rifle around to his back and approached the small group of walkers.

  “Howdy,” he greeted, the strange Texas custom sounding weird coming from his mouth. “Have you folks been to Cartersville?”

  There were four men, two women, and a small child huddled together as he approached. They did not seem happy or eager to make new friends.

  “I mean no harm,” Grim stated explicitly, stopping several feet away and trying to look non-threatening. “I’m just seeking information.”

  “Yes, we were just thrown out of Cartersville, stranger. It’s not a very friendly place at the moment,” stated the oldest of the bunch.

  “Sorry to hear that,” Grim answered. His concern over his teammate immediately escalating. Still, he did his best to conceal the elevated anxiety. “I was there some time ago, and while they were pretty strict, it was a fair place to hole up for a while.”

  “Yes, yes it was,” replied one of the others. “But today, something went wrong. They started rounding up everybody who wasn’t a full-time resident and forced us to leave. We didn’t have time to gather any supplies - barely got out of there with our belongings.”

  “Any idea what happened?” Grim questioned, trying to pry as much Intel out of the frightened exiles as possible.

  “There’s been a lot of unusual activity lately. They had some man come visiting from something called the Alliance a few days past, and that’s when the trouble started. Ever since then, the local goons have been high-strung and mean as hell. But today… today was really off the charts. They kicked everybody out and were damn rough about it.”

  “Well, thank you for the warning. I think I’ll avoid visiting for a while, maybe give things a chance to settle down.”

  Grim started to turn, but then remembered something the man had said. “Hey mister, before we part company, did I hear you say something about the Alliance?”

  “Sure did. There was some guy meeting with Mr. Gospel, the man who runs Cartersville. Rumor had it the visitor was from a new group taking over a lot of central Texas. They call themselves the Alliance.”

  Grim smiled, nodding his understanding. “Not long ago I passed through an Alliance town. It seemed to me they really had their act together. It was the nicest place I’ve been in a while. If you folks head south and west of here, I’m sure you’ll run into them.”

  “Thanks. We might not have much choice. Appreciate the advice.”

  Both parties continued on their way, Grim circling back to Kevin’s position. After filling in his comrade with the news out of Cartersville, he said, “I think something bad has happened to Cory. Either he’s been detained or hung or is in hiding.”

  “It’s not like him to give up on meeting us so easily. I wish he’d been able to take his radio in there.”

  Grim announced their next step. “Kevin, this is going to be dangerous as hell, but I don’t see any option. We don’t leave a teammate behind. I wouldn’t abandon you and would expect you guys to burn down the gates of hell for me. We are going to have to go in and look for him.”

  Kevin nodded, “You don’t have to tell me that, Grim. I’d die for any of you. We are a team.”

  “Glad to hear you say it,” Grim replied. “This is going to be extremely tricky given their security people seem to be on high alert. But if we’re careful and work together, I think we’ve got a good shot at pulling it off.”

  “I’m in, 100%. Just tell me what you want to do.”
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  Bishop awoke from his catnap, his dreams interrupted by the sound of excited voices. While he couldn’t understand the language, it was clear something was happening in the village.

  He stayed inside the tiny, single room adobe, watching through the narrow door as women, children and men moved along the street at a quickened pace. Everyone appeared to be heading for the square. He decided to follow.

  A significant crowd had gathered by the time the Texan arrived. Fortunately, he was taller than the average citizen, so standing at the back of the throng didn’t limit his visibility.

  A procession came down the main street, several of the village’s younger men brandishing their rifles while being kissed on the cheek as they passed through the clusters of local maidens. Everyone was expressing congratulations, patting the armed party on the back and sharing hugs of celebration.

  Toward the end of the parade, Bishop finally saw the reason for the merriment. A single horse was being led into the square. In the saddle sat a cowboy, his hands tied behind his back. The man looked nearly dead, blood streaming from his nose, mouth and ear. Red welts covered his face and bare chest. Somebody had beaten the captive badly.

  Then another horse came into view, a body tied over the saddle. The villagers hurled insults and pointed angry gestures at the passing dead man.

  Rocco appeared on the church’s steps, the default, elevated speaking platform for the tiny square. After the horses were led to a stop in front of him, Rocco clasped his hands together in victory and waved them above his head. The throng went nuts, cheers of support filling the adobe lined streets.

  “Viva Tejanos!” Rocco yelled over the crowd. “Viva Tejanos!”

  Several voices took up the chant, it soon sounding like the entire village was shouting at the top of its united lungs.

  While the mob continued to celebrate, several men pulled the prisoner from his saddle, roughly manhandling him up onto the stage. Bishop noted they had to support the poor fellow, his legs unable to bear his own weight.

  While he couldn’t catch every Spanish word, it soon became clear to Bishop that Rocco was telling his supporters that the captured Salineros rider would be interrogated throughout the night and hung in the morning. He warned everyone that their sleep might be disturbed by the prisoner’s screaming and begging for mercy. The crowd didn’t seem to mind, many of the people around Bishop calling for the man to be skinned alive – right now, right there on the church steps.

  And then the party was over, Rocco’s troops lead the doomed man away, as well as the two horses.

  Bishop hung back, trying to appear as disinterested as possible. In reality, his mind was moving a thousand miles per hour. A solution had just appeared before his eyes, the answer to all of his problems appearing out of thin air.

  After the mob had dispersed, Bishop made for the place he knew Rocco would be. Sure enough, the local jefe was congratulating his fighters, listening to their excited bragging about how they’d come to execute one rider and capture the other.

  Like any good leader, Rocco rode the wave of victory, soon ordering tequila and cigars for the brave Tejanos soldiers.

  Bishop stayed back, having no desire to dampen the festivities, but wanting to talk to Rocco before they accidently killed the Salineros rider.

  Someone showed up with a guitar, soon followed by several young ladies in brightly colored skirts. The tequila flowed, and the dancing began. The Texan grimaced when the partiers starting firing celebratory gunshots into the air. What a waste of ammo, he thought.

  After an hour, it became clear that Rocco had more serious tasks on his mind. Slowly, politely, his two top lieutenants and he began shooing the revelers away, gently guiding them to take their celebration elsewhere.

  Bishop stayed put, listening as the merrymakers moved a few streets over, their voices, gunshots, and shouting now held down to a dull roar. The Texan checked his carbine, thumbed off the safety, and began walking toward Rocco.

  ‘Evening,” he announced, startling the three Tejanos leaders as he appeared out of the shadows. “I understand I’m no longer the only gringo in town.”

  Rocco didn’t seem displeased to see Bishop’s approach, smiling broadly at the new arrival. The two subordinates weren’t so happy, eyeing Bishop’s rifle with wary eyes.

  “What can I do for you, my friend?” Rocco asked.

  “I would like to have a word with you in private,” Bishop replied, his tone making it clear something important was on his mind.

  Glancing at his two remaining soldiers, Rocco shook his head. “There is nothing my men can’t hear. I trust them explicitly.”

  “Fine with me,” the Texan responded. “I’ll get right down to business. I want the prisoner and the two horses. They’re my ticket to get my wife and son back, and our ride home.”

  A hurt look replaced Rocco’s smile, almost as if Bishop had insulted the man.

  “Señor, while you are my honored guest, your request is impossible. We don’t turn captured Salineros killers loose. I cannot do as you request.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Rocco. I want my wife and child back, and I don’t have any other option. I’ll give you my word that I’ll come back and make a serious attempt to broker a peace between the Culpepper outfit and your people.”

  Rocco spread his hands wide in the air, “How about a compromise? I’ll grant you the horses and as many of the supplies from your truck as you can pack. You can ride the animals to the ranch? I think this is a fair bargain, no?”

  “No. If I show up at Culpepper’s front door with two of his men’s horses, he might think I murdered them. I need the survivor to guide me in and tell those people that I rescued him.”

  Rocco shook his head, his voice becoming less friendly. “I’m sorry, Bishop, but I cannot grant your request. My men need to see the conclusion to their efforts. My people have to know we are winning.”

  The two men with Rocco noted the change in their boss’s tone, both of them becoming stiff and ready for action. Bishop remained calm.

  “Give him to me, along with the horses, or there’s going to be trouble. I’ve got to get back to my family and make sure they’re okay. Don’t press this, Rocco. It’s not a fight you want right here in the middle of your hometown.”

  Bishop saw an odd light pass behind Rocco’s eyes, a glimmer of something cold and cruel. “As you wish,” the leader replied. “I’ll have our captive brought out for you,” he added, turning to step to the back of his home. As he passed close to his men, Bishop heard a whisper in Spanish. “Kill him.”

  It was a poorly executed move, the Texan primed and ready for just such a play. Both of Rocco’s troops brandished AK47 battle rifles, but they weren’t experienced enough to bring them into play while moving at the same time. Bishop, on the other hand, already had his carbine at his shoulder, centering his red dot before either man on the porch could even raise his weapon.

  The M4 barked once, twice, three times, its report blending in with the occasional gunfire still erupting from the nearby celebration. Both lieutenants crumpled to the porch’s wooden planks.

  Rocco paused, his hands in the air, his back still turned to Bishop. “Will you shoot me in the back?” he asked the Texan.

  “No. Like I said, this is a fight you don’t want,” Bishop replied, walking closer to his former friend. “Bring me the prisoner and the horses. Now!”

  Rocco nodded his agreement, taking a half step and then spinning quickly. Bishop saw the flash of shiny steel in the man’s hand just as a knife came hurling through the air.

  The blade struck Bishop dead center in the chest, but bounced harmlessly off of the Texan’s body armor, clambering down to the packed dirt surface at his feet.

  Rage swelled inside the Texan, the underhanded attempt to kill him sparking an eruption of fury. With his head down and heart pumping, he stepped into Rocco. It would have been too easy to slay the man with his rifle; he wanted the pleasure of thrashing his foe with his bare h
ands.

  Rocco was furious as well, the death of his men combined with the Texan’s unreasonable demands making him regret ever letting Bishop live. The two men collided.

  The larger and stronger of the two, Rocco still was handicapped, his one arm hampered by the injury suffered during the ambush. Still, he was a brave and potent fighter.

  While Bishop was the more skilled, his efforts were restricted by the rifle and heavy kit strapped to his chest.

  The Texan was far more motivated than his opponent. In addition to the pent up stress from not knowing Terri and Hunter’s status, he knew the engagement had to end quickly, or local reinforcements would arrive.

  Stepping in close, he ducked a powerful roundhouse, popping back up to deliver a punishing series of quick jabs to Rocco’s face.

  Backing away from Bishop’s swarming fists, Rocco took a few breaths to recover. “You are no better than the Salineros trash we fight every day. I should have killed you back in the Valley of Rocks.”

  Bishop ignored the taunt, stepping in with a feigned right while launching his best left. Rocco somehow managed to duck under the punch, delivering a solid kick to Bishop’s stomach as he passed. It was the Texan’s turn to stagger back and regroup.

  “You’re too stupid to realize what I’m offering you, Rocco,” the Texan managed between heaving breaths. “I’m giving you the best chance you’ll have at peace. To end the killing. To end the suffering. You’re so wrapped up in hate and loathing, you can’t see anything other than revenge.”

  The words seemed to sting Rocco. Growling, he dove into his opponent, good arm throwing two quick punches that insulted nothing but open air. Bishop wasn’t there.

  A sharp pain bolted through Rocco’s ribs, courtesy of Bishop’s elbow. Another blow landed on the larger man’s ear, ringing-white lines of pain vibrating through his head. Rocco went down to his knees, unable to stand any longer.