Holding Their Own: The Salt War

by Joe Nobody

  Spinning to give the doctor a head start, Grim fired several wild shots one-handed from the hip. He didn’t expect to hit anything with the poor technique, hoping only to force his enemy’s head down.

  A few seconds later, Grim dashed past Kevin, shouting out the instructions, “Cover me!” as Victor’s body bounced on his shoulder.

  It took Stan’s thugs a few moments to realize that their game was up if Victor and the doc survived. Mere seconds after that, one of the faster thinking of their ranks began issuing commands and organizing their force.

  More men were arriving all the time, drawn by the sound of gunfire and screaming. Kevin, trying to give Grim and Dr. Hines a reasonable head start, noted more and more long guns were amongst the forces now assembling on both sides.

  The deputies and ex-lawmen were vastly outgunned, and they knew it. Stan’s truckers had numbered in the thousands, the able-bodied men in the hundreds. The majority had been drafted into the security force.

  With their chief dead, an inferior sized force, and no clear leadership emerging, the lawmen seemed content to barricade themselves in one corner of the square and wait it out.

  Stan’s security heavies, on the other hand, started moving toward Kevin’s bench.

  When the kid fired the next shot, he hoped seeing one of their own fall would give the approaching shooters reason to reconsider. Firing into the teamsters had the opposite effect.

  Rifles began pounding lead in Kevin’s direction, splinters and dirt filling the air. He dove, rolled, and crawled across the street.

  Grim appeared at that moment, unburdened by Victor’s body, and dashing like a demon. In a flash, he was between the scuttling kid and the oncoming attackers. Like a drummer pounding out a cadence, Grim’s finger began squeezing the trigger.

  At a rate of two to three shots per second, the battle-hardened man’s fire tore into the approaching skirmish line, shot after shot finding flesh, sinew, and bone.

  Spewing 28 rounds in less than two breaths, Grim’s empty magazine was rattling across the pavement, a new one inserted faster than the eye could follow. Another volley of high velocity death then followed.

  So accurate was Grim’s barrage, the gaggle of security men scattered, many of them running in retreat. More than a handful of moaning, withering bodies littered the sidewalks, another number unable to move at all.

  And then like a ghost, the figure that had sprayed death into their ranks was gone, the swish of his shadow disappearing around the corner.

  It took a moment for the terror and fear to morph into anger. As more and more reinforcements arrived, the security force began to regroup.

  Grim, Kevin and the two locals didn’t have much of a head start, but they would take what they could get. Pushing aside his frustration at how slowly they were moving, Grim said, “The only thing I know to do is get the fuck out of here.”

  They continued running, using a dark side street and trying to make their way north. At the next crossing, Grim announced, “We’re way outnumbered, and it’s going to take the friendly locals a while to get organized. We have to get our two friends to safety, and that means out of this town.”

  For such a small berg, it seemed to the Alliance men like it was taking forever to reach the edge of Cartersville. Both Grim and Kevin knew they’d feel better once they reached a more rural environment.

  Finally, three blocks ahead, Grim spied the same roadblock where he’d met Cory just the night before. “Now we’re cooking with gas,” he yelled between breaths. “Let’s get out of Dodge.”

  Rather than respond, Kevin pulled up short and then dove for cover.

  Several rifles opened up from the barricade, incoming rounds throwing sparks and chips of pavement into the air. Grim leapt as well, Victor’s limp body hitting the ground hard. “Sorry about that, bud,” he whispered as his rifle came up.

  Just as Grim had centered the first man in his sights, more rounds began impacting around his position – these coming from behind.

  Grim spun, catching a glimpse of several outlines moving up the street behind them. “Fuck, Kevin! We’re cut off! I got the rear; keep those assholes at the barricade off of us!”

  Their position wasn’t ideal, tactically or strategically. With only two abandoned cars and a single utility pole for cover, Grim could think of a hundred other places he’d prefer as a Fort Apache.

  Nor was maneuver an option, the nearest cross street now held by the enemy, oblong one-story buildings flanking both sides of the lane. There literally wasn’t any place to go.

  Grim scanned both high and low between shots. There weren’t any manhole covers to open for escape, no trees to climb. He seriously doubted any angels or helicopters were going to swoop down and save them.

  More and more rounds shredded the cars and earth around them, an increasing symphony of pings, thwacks, and zings signaling their opponents were growing stronger by the second.

  The air became harsh, difficult to breathe, polluted with a fog of cordite gun smoke, fragments of bullet-cut concrete, and snowflakes of lead-shaved metal. It burned the throats of the Alliance fighters, stung their eyes and denied their lungs.

  Neither impending death nor fear burdened Grim’s mind. He was in his element, a state where all of his senses worked in harmony to derive an advantage, any advantage, to win the fight. The ricocheting scream of a near miss invoked a mechanical string of computations and commands, his carbine’s barrel adjusting to address the threat. The sharp stab of ear-pain from a heavy bullet just missing his head automatically adjusted his targeting priority.

  Marathon runners often claimed to reach a state of mental euphoria called a “runner’s high.” Grim was now in a place his comrades called a “gunner’s high.”

  But his internal, business-like calm of combat was about to be shattered.

  “I’m down to 40,” announced Kevin’s frightened voice, informing Grim he was going to run out of ammo soon.

  “Make ’em count, kid. Hurt ’em bad,” was the only thing he could think of to say.

  Nick is going to skin my dead carcass for getting his boy killed, Grim thought. I’m sorry, my friend. I did my best. He went out fighting as well as any man I’ve ever served with.

  Despite the deadly accurate return fire, the men at both ends of the trap were growing impatient. Grim saw them bunching up, ready to execute a multi-pronged assault.

  “Here they come, right and left,” he yelled to Kevin. “I’ve got the left side.”

  A blizzard of debris, glass, concrete, metal shavings, and hot lead filled the air around the two Alliance defenders. Despite every natural instinct to duck and stay low, Grim and Kevin rose and began returning as much hell as they could dish out.

  It worked, the enemy’s charge faltering after three men in front dropped down, tripping others behind them. “Amateurs. You fucked up,” Grim whispered. “You were bunched too tightly.”

  He also knew they wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  “I’m out,” sounded Kevin’s excited voice.

  Grim drew his sidearm, throwing the pistol across to his partner and then following the toss with his only spare magazine. “You’ve got 15 rounds. Make ’em count.”

  Checking his own ammo supply, Grim frowned. He was down to three magazines, each holding 28 rounds. His hand felt for the knife on his belt, but the hilt didn’t generate much comfort.

  The operator knew instinctively the opponents were regrouping for another charge. Without Kevin’s rifle covering the other side of the street, he figured the kid and he would be overrun in the next 30 seconds, maybe less.

  And here they came.

  With better spacing than the previous attempt and moving at a faster pace, they surged with twenty men on each side of the road. It was a mad rush at Grim and Kevin’s position. Again, a wall of bullets tore into the Alliance defenders’ cover.

  Grim took his time, making sure every one of his precious bullets dropped a man. But the aggressors were too cl
ose and too numerous. Again and again, he dropped one of the charging outlines, but they kept coming.

  When the combatants managed a position within 50 yards, Kevin started firing with his pistol. Grim wasn’t sure how accurate the kid could be at that range, but at least he would distract some of the blistering, incoming fire.

  Grim noticed one, and then another man on Kevin’s side of the street fall. Then a third went down, immediately followed by a fourth. Damn, he thought, I knew the kid was hell on wheels with a long gun, but that is some serious combat shooting with a pistol.

  Returning to the cluster of attackers on his side of the road, Grim was amazed to see two of them fall as well. “What the hell?” he muttered, emptying another magazine.

  Again, the assault stalled, confused men peering all around them as it trying to determine where the death was coming from.

  A huge shadow appeared out of nowhere, bright muzzle flashes illuminating a new presence on the battlefield. Accurate, debilitating, fire began pounding into the flank of the clustered attackers. Down they went, one after another. Grim laughed, raising his newly-reloaded carbine to add to the carnage. “We just found your dad,” he shouted over to a wide-eyed Kevin. “Looks like Cory is with him as well.”

  Despite the champions being comprised of only two men, Nick and Cory’s attack on their flank was too much for the ineffectively led and lightly trained security forces. In less than a minute, they broke, scampering wildly in retreat.

  “Come on!” Nick waved at his besieged teammates. “Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?”

  They still had the smaller group of defenders at the barricade to worry about, but their enthusiasm to fight seemed to have faltered after seeing their comrades take a serious ass whooping.

  As Grim started to lift Victor onto his shoulder, Nick appeared at his side. “I’ve got him. You need a break,” the larger team leader announced.

  Effortlessly, Nick hefted the tiny looking merchant. After glancing over at Kevin and nodding, the four SAINT members, along with the two locals, faded away into the night.

  “I’m damn glad to see you, but where the hell did you come from?” Grim asked as the team moved away from Cartersville.

  “When Cory explained to me what was going on, I decided we’d better see if we could lend assistance. We heard the gunfire, so we drove the truck and hid it closer to town. I figured if there was shooting going on, you were probably in the middle of it,” Nick grinned.

  “Well, thank the heavens for small miracles. That one was getting close,” Grim responded.

  “We’ll talk about my son’s welfare while under your charge later,” Nick stated. Grim couldn’t tell if the big guy was kidding or not.

  They found the pickup, left behind a barn in waist-high weeds. Victor’s moaning signaled he’d regained consciousness, the merchant’s nose broken by Stan’s mighty blow. Nick tossed the doctor a first aid kit and then observed as the physician went about tending to his friend.

  Satisfied the injured man was receiving excellent care, Nick then moved to Kevin’s side. He watched as his son tried to reload a magazine, the young man’s hands trembling so badly he couldn’t hold onto a cartridge.

  Gently placing his hand over Kevin’s, Nick said, “It’s okay, son. Everything is going to be fine. You’re safe now.”

  Kevin peered up at his father, trying desperately to hold back the tears. Nick knew exactly what his son was feeling, had experienced similar emotions a dozen times in his early career. A soldier taking a life for the first time was one thing, facing one’s own certain death was another. The young teen’s brain was dealing with still being alive after he’d prepared himself to die. Survival, under such circumstances, is often extremely difficult to reconcile, and the older soldier knew how it felt. When father pulled son close, the kid couldn’t hold back anymore, bursting into a deep sob.

  Nick didn’t say anything, keeping a tight hold on his son. Waves of weeping racked Kevin’s body, his father feeling each and every shudder. Despite every man at the camp being well aware of what was happening, no one said a word.

  After a bit, Kevin worked it out of his system. Wiping his face on a sleeve, he glanced at his father and nodded his thanks. “I’ve pulled it together,” he said bravely. “I’ll be all right.”

  “No, you won’t,” Grim’s voice sounded as he stepped to Kevin’s side. “We’ve all been right where you’re standing, kid. You’ll never be like you were - never be the same again. Eventually, you’ll manage to keep it under control, and that’s about the best any soldier can ask for. It’s a skill just as important as being able to shoot or run or reload. And let me add this; you can fight beside me any day of any week. You did well, and I don’t say those words to many men.”

  Kevin nodded his thanks to Grim and then returned to reloading his magazines. Still, he couldn’t control the shaking. “You go heat up some coffee, and check the perimeter with my carbine,” Grim ordered. “I’ll take care of your mags.”

  When the kid hesitated, Grim squared up. “That’s an order, trooper. Do it.”

  Nick and Grim watched the younger man leave. After he was out of sight, Nick looked down at Grim and mouthed the words, “Thank you,” and then spun away quickly, moving off to talk to the men from Cartersville.

  Bishop and Reed rode hard for about 10 miles, finally slowing so their animals could recoup. Near the boulder field where the ambush had taken place, both men dismounted for a break. Reed was thirsty, his body trying to heal from the beating suffered at the hands of his captors.

  Checking him out as best he could, Bishop didn’t think the cowboy had suffered life-threatening injuries. “You’re going to be sore as hell for a month,” he advised. “But you’ll live.”

  “Thanks to you,” the ranch hand replied. “How did you pull that off?”

  “We can talk about that later. Right now, I have one pressing question. ‘How are my wife and son?’”

  Reed detected the edge in his rescuer’s voice and was glad he could deliver good news. “They’re just fine,” he responded. “Mr. Culpepper has been treating them as honored guests. That boy of yours is as cute as a bug’s ear from what I hear.”

  The relief that flooded Bishop’s body was beyond description. That one statement lifted a tremendous weight from the Texan’s shoulders, instantly improving his energy and mood.

  The two riders continued for another few hours until they reached the valley’s summit. “There’s not enough moon to guide the horses down,” Reed advised. “Besides, Mr. Culpepper’s patrols are probably a little trigger happy right now. I suggest we hide out here until daylight and then ride on in.”

  Bishop agreed.

  Reed tethered their steeds, giving each animal a handful of grain from the saddle bags. He pulled a small bowl from the same area, pouring each horse a trifling amount of liquid from his canteen. “I saw the Tejanos water these animals,” he informed Bishop. “They’ll be okay.”

  “So I assume you know how to get into the ranch without getting us shot?” Bishop asked.

  “We should be fine,” the cowpoke responded. “They’ll change the patrols and lookouts if they think I was captured. The Tejanos have a way of making a man talk if they take one of us alive.”

  Satisfied with the answers he received, Bishop continued on to the next task. “You’ve had the shit beat out of ya, so I’ll take the first watch. I’ll wake you up a few hours before dawn.”

  “You’re a good man,” Reed nodded. “I hope to pay you back one day.”

  A few moments later, with his hat tipped low over his eyes, loud breathing drifted through the otherwise still night air as the cowhand drifted off to sleep.

  Bishop was so elated to hear his family was well, that he probably wouldn’t have been able to rest anyway. Taking a perch on a nearby high rock, the Texan’s thoughts drifted to what Terri and he would do once they were reunited at the Culpepper spread. There was still the problem of an ongoing war.

&
nbsp; Unless Terri had formed some grand idea, Bishop didn’t believe a solution was possible.

  The subject was complex enough that it commanded most of the Texan’s time. Before he knew it, the eastern sky was glowing with its announcement of the coming day. Reed would indeed be grateful for the extra shuteye.

  Wishing they could build a fire and sip some coffee, Bishop finally nudged his co-rider awake. “I let you sleep all night by accident,” he stated. “Besides, you looked like you needed the rest.”

  “Again, I’m in your debt,” came the yawning response. Like most men who made their living on the range, Reed was ready to climb into the saddle in less than 10 minutes.

  Down from the ridge they rode, eventually reaching the desert plain. Yellow-brown sand stretched off into the distance as far as Bishop could see, the featureless terrain looking sun-bleached and barren.

  The pace was faster on the flat earth, the two riders continuing north at a steady pace. There was little conversation, only the occasional comment such as, “Going to be a hot one today,” and “Your water supply holding up?”

  The flatlands eventually turned into gradual slopes of sand and rock. At the crest of one such formation, Reed signaled for Bishop to stop. “We’re getting close,” he said. “The ranch is less than two miles away.”

  They continued, ultimately spying the outline of low, hazy rooflines in the distance.

  Through the heat mirages rising from the hot sand floor, Bishop spotted the riders approaching. Five men met them face on, Reed’s reunion with his friends tainted by Bishop’s presence. “He saved my ass,” Reed informed. “The Tejanos were sharpening their skinning knives and giving me the evil eye, but my friend here busted me loose.”

  “What about Frank?” one of the riders asked.

  Staring down at his saddle horn, Reed delivered the bad news. “He didn’t make it, but he didn’t suffer none. They took him out with the first shot right through here,” he reported, pointing at his heart.