Holding Their Own XI: Hearts and Minds

by Joe Nobody

  Butter was working the other truck, and soon Grim was chasing after the retreating victims of the flash bomb. They had broken the attack.

  Bishop was just bending over to retrieve a dropped rifle when the pickup beside him began rolling. For a second, he thought the driver was trying to get away.

  Running up beside the cab, he saw the bleeding man still lying prone across the seat.

  “His foot’s still on the gas!” Bishop yelled at Butter. “Get the hell out of the way!”

  There wasn’t anything else to be done but watch the old Ford accelerate directly toward its cousin.

  The two vehicles weren’t that far apart, Bishop estimating the impact at about 10 mph. But it was enough to puncture the gas tank of the jacked up 4x4 on the receiving end of the collision.

  While Bishop rushed up to check on the unconscious driver, the smell of gasoline filled the air. The crash had jammed the door tight.

  The Texan ran around the tailgate, hoping the passenger door was still operable. Three bullets ripped into the fender, chasing him back to cover. Butter clearly hadn’t finished mopping up.

  The situation was soon remedied by the blinding flash of another grenade, or at least that’s what Bishop thought.

  While Butter’s toss had landed square in the middle of the still-resisting Baxter guns, it also ignited the gasoline with a whoosh.

  “Shit!” Bishop cursed, turning his head away from the wave of hot air.

  It then occurred to him that the driver was about to be roasted alive. After verifying no active guns remained aimed in his direction, Bishop hustled to the Ford’s door and yanked hard on the handle. It opened.

  The guy in the cab moaned when Bishop grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled hard. By the time the driver’s body bounced out the door and onto the ground, the Texan figured the fellow wouldn’t need a haircut for quite a while.

  After the now-groaning driver had been dragged to a patch of non-burning grass, Bishop pulled a pair of nylon handcuffs from the back of his belt. In less than 10 seconds, he secured the still-drowsy man’s hands and feet.

  Grim appeared around the corner, four men with their hands on their heads marching in single file ahead of the contractor’s barrel.

  It took the three Alliance men over an hour to secure 11 prisoners, three of which were unconscious. Butter gathered weapons, assisted by the roaring fire of the two trucks while Grim searched the prisoners an applied nylon restraints.

  Bishop checked each man for serious injuries but found nothing life threatening.

  By the time they were done, the pre-dawn eastern sky was about to announce the sunrise. Bishop, thinking there may still be an observer up in the hills, rushed inside to retrieve a stack of old bedsheets.

  One by one, he laid out the white cotton covers, each apparently covering a body lying near the house. Logs from the woodpile provided the lumps and bulges to imitate the dead beneath.

  “You’re evil,” Grim teased, watching Bishop put the final touches on their pretend, improvised morgue. “I love it.”

  Bishop watched Butter standing over the prisoners. “Fetch the Sat phone and call the sheriff. He’ll take these guys off our hands. Round one goes to the white hats.”

  Chapter 6

  Cameron watched the men loading supplies into the vans, impressed with their efficiency and discipline. He had to admit, they were a rough-looking bunch, obviously cocky, and wholly capable of violence.

  The oldest noticed his employer’s presence and approached, “Good morning, Mr. Lewis. We’re about ready to shove off.”

  “Do you have everything you need?”

  “Yes, sir, and thank you, sir. The equipment and ammo you’ve been stockpiling is all first class. My team will put it to good use.”

  Cam handed the former Marine Corps Captain a folder. “This is everything we know, including a topographical map, the directions you will need, names of the players, and the latest intelligence I’ve received from our sources within the Alliance.”

  The sturdy veteran accepted the file and nodded but offered no additional comment.

  “As I stated last night, the primary objective is to protect those ranchers down there. We will make an example out of their plight that will open the eyes of citizens all across the Alliance. Unfortunately, that will likely result in causalities, but the men pretending to be squatters already have blood on their hands. They are some of the malicious crooks who executed my people at Midland Station and seized my private property. They, like the rest of that gang of thieves running the show in Texas, have no respect for the Constitution or individual liberties.”

  Again, the captain merely nodded his understanding and agreement.

  “And there’s a bonus!” Cam continued. “I’ve just learned that the man in charge of the squatters holds a position of prominence in their government and is one of the leading enforcers of their socialist policies. His team and he are like the Nazi Brownshirts of pre-World War Two Germany, traveling all around and using force against any citizen who tries to stand up for his rights. This thug’s demise will open additional avenues of approach for our efforts and send a strong message to the freedom loving Texans trapped by the current regime. Any questions?”

  “No, sir. I think we’re all set. It will be a pleasure to take these guys out of the fight and help those ranchers keep what is rightfully theirs.”

  “Good luck then. I’ll see you all back here in a few days.”

  Cameron watched the captain’s team load into the vans and drive away. A sense of well-being warmed his soul. Finally, after all the months of bitterness and inaction, he was taking the first step toward redemption. Justice lay just over the horizon.

  The men he’d just dispatched to Texas had been gathered months ago, at a point in time where he believed the use of force and arms was the only path to revitalization. He’d almost dismissed the entire group when it had become clear that the Alliance wasn’t going to be dislodged with gun barrels. Now he was glad he’d kept them on the payroll.

  In addition to the information about the ranchers north of Fort Davidson, Cam had also received a copy of the new Alliance rules regarding personal property, including detailed documentation of how the system was to be implemented.

  Sauntering back inside the nondescript metal building that served as his temporary headquarters, Cam headed for the main conference room where four gentlemen waited patiently for his return.

  There was a stark difference between these men and the group of former soldiers and Marines he’d just dispatched to Texas. Rising from their plush chairs, Cam shook each man’s hand. Rather than camo fatigues and load vests, all of the attendees wore jackets and ties. Instead of rifles, optics, and explosives, their weapons were contained in the leather briefcases scattered around the large table.

  “Gentlemen, I hope everyone has had an opportunity to read and digest the information we’ve received from the Alliance,” Cameron began.

  All present nodded that indeed they had studied the massive stacks of documents.

  “Good. You all know our strategy; each of you has your assignments. I want this new batch of Alliance bullshit attacked from every possible legal angle. I want it challenged in what little press exists in Texas. You are to act as representatives… legal counsel… for the common, average citizen. You are to play the role of benevolent seekers of justice and equality. But most importantly, you are to be royal pains in the local government’s ass.”

  The four lawyers smiled and nodded, each appearing eager to begin the campaign.

  “Then I’ll conclude by wishing you all a safe journey and the best of luck. Hopefully, we’ll meet again within a month’s time and celebrate the downfall of Alpha’s tyranny.”

  Another round of handshakes and best wishes were exchanged as the four men readied to leave. Cam soon found himself alone with his thoughts.

  “I wonder which group will inflict the most damage?” he queried the empty room. “My money is on the la
wyers. They’re far more vicious.”

  “Solo rider coming in, sir. On horseback, under a white flag. It’s Katherine,” the anxious messenger reported.

  Abercrombie Pomelos rose from the dining room table after wiping the grease of a partially consumed chicken wing from his chin. “Maybe we’ll find out what all the fuss was about last night,” he grumbled. “Let her come in. But make sure you keep an eye out for any of her kin trying to sneak up while she has us distracted.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The old rancher checked his teeth for scraps via the hall mirror, rubbed the stubble of three-day growth on his chin and ran his fingers through his hair. Shrugging, he whispered, “That damn woman doesn’t deserve my Sunday best anyhow.”

  He strode to the front porch, reassured by the two stocky ranch hands stationed at either end of the long wooden structure. After exchanging a quick nod with the sentries, Abe stepped off to wait as the lone rider approached.

  The ruckus last night had kept most of his crew awake into the wee hours. While the main house was over five miles away from the disputed property, the explosions and bright flashes had been clearly visible. At first, Abe had thought there was a weird thunderstorm on the way, but that idea was quickly dispelled once he’d pulled on his trousers and managed the front yard. Rain clouds didn’t create large plumes of fire and smoke like they could see in the distance.

  “The Baxters are fighting with somebody,” one of the foremen had speculated.

  “Bullshit,” another had replied. “Who would they be scrapping with? All of our men are present and accounted for.”

  The following morning, their scout had returned with little useful information. “There are two burned out pickups sitting in front of the old house. That’s all I could see.”

  Katherine approached slowly, a pillowcase tied tightly to what appeared to be a broom handle waving in the air.

  “You don’t need that flag anymore, Kathy. I’m not going to shoot you,” Abe called from across the barnyard.

  She continued riding, finally stopping 15 feet in front of Abe. “We need to talk,” she insisted, getting right to the matter at hand.

  “So talk.”

  “There are squatters on the old place, three men claiming to be from up north. We tried to push them off last night and got our asses thoroughly kicked. I lost 11 men and have another handful hurting in the bunkhouse. We’ve got to do something.”

  “What’s this ‘we’ shit, Katherine?” Abe spat back. “Why should I give a pig’s oysters that somebody kicked your outfit’s ass? I should probably buy them a round of drinks.”

  The head of the Baxter clan shook her head, a low, mean laugh rising from her throat. “You old fool. Stop trying to be the biggest swinging dick in the valley for a minute, and think. One of your boys already put a bullet in a deputy’s leg, and that has pissed off Watts and his cronies. They’re not going to be doing either of us any favors for a while. Now, we got squatters moving in right before the new law comes down. If we don’t work together, those three bastards could end up owning our water supply. Both of our herds will shrivel up and blow away in the wind. Can’t you see that?”

  Abe rubbed his chin, staring back hard at the woman his men called, “Old Brass Ass.” Like a hundred times before, it occurred to him that the name was a perfect fit. “So what do you propose?”

  “We can settle our quarrel later. Right now, we have to get those wandering scum off that property. The only thing worse than having you control that creek would be having a bunch of hostile gypsies in charge of our watering hole. You comprende?”

  Abe thought it over, finally motioning for his archrival to dismount. She might be an uncompromising, old bitch, but that didn’t mean she was always wrong. The fact that she had come to him, alone, carried even more weight.

  “Come on in,” he said, “Let’s have a powwow.”

  She dismounted, following him inside. He offered her a drink, which she accepted. He had to dig in the cabinet for the better bottle of brandy.

  “Those three squatters have the old place wired with explosives and trip wires,” she informed her host after a sip of the golden colored liquid. “They claim to be ex-military, and after they chewed up my men and spit them out like watermelon seeds, I tend to believe them.”

  Abe started to fire off a smartass remark about the quality of Baxter fighting men but held his tongue. Deep inside, he knew Kathy’s men were as good as his. Finally, he said so. “So what’s to stop these vigilantes from doing the same thing to my crew? It sounds like our little oasis has been turned into the Valley of Death to me.”

  “I sent in 20 of my best, and they scampered back with their tails between their legs, whimpering like whupped pups.”

  The two ranch owners spent the next hour and two refills exploring different options and ideas. Despite the warming effect of the alcohol, both were extremely frustrated.

  Right when it seemed there was no possible solution, one of Abe’s men knocked on the front door. “Sir, we’ve got a white van coming up the lane,” the man reported, eyeing Kathrine with suspicion.

  Abe reached for the gun in his belt, throwing a fiery glance at his nemesis. “If you’ve double-crossed me, woman, I swear I’ll put a hole in your corset.”

  Unflustered, Katherine shook her head. “This is none of my doing, Abe. I swear it.”

  “We’ll see,” he said, using his gun barrel to wave her toward the front porch.

  There were a dozen rifles covering the van as it rolled to a stop in front of the main house. Abe and Kathy watched as a single man exited and approached. He walked like a military man with squared shoulders and a measured stride. “Is this the Pomelos place?” he asked.

  “Who wants to know?” came the cold response.

  “I lead a SAINT team for the Alliance. I’ve been assigned to settle a land dispute between your ranch and the Baxter’s. I’m stopping by as a courtesy to tell you to keep your people out of that valley.”

  Abe exchanged looks with Katherine, neither quite knowing what to make of the new arrival. Both of them had heard of the SAINT teams before.

  “You’re a little late, mister. Mrs. Baxter and I were just discussing a group of violent gunmen who have moved into the old homestead. They shot up a bunch of her men last night.” the rancher replied.

  “We’re already aware of that, sir. My men and I will move them out shortly. In the meantime, I strongly suggest both of your organizations stay clear of the basin. It would be a shame if more of your men were killed in a crossfire.”

  Katherine stepped forward and said, “And after you move them out?”

  “We’ll let the Alliance settle things after that. My orders are to take possession of that valley, and that’s just what I’m going to do.”

  “What’s your name, mister?” Abe asked again.

  The former Marine Corps captain’s mind scrambled back to the file Cameron Lewis had provided before his team had left Oklahoma. “Folks call me Bishop, sir,” he said with a sly grin.

  After alternating catnaps and light meals most of the day, Bishop and his crew were hard at it after sundown. “Move the perimeter out 100 meters,” he ordered Butter and Grim. “I don’t think they’ll be back, but just in case our new friends are feeling frisky, we need to reposition our little party favors so they maintain the delight of surprise.”

  The commander also changed their fighting positions.

  “These aren’t as good, but the combatants may have noted our locations last night,” Bishop reminded his men.

  After an agreement to keep the same watch order, Bishop left via the back door and stalked his way to the new hide.

  The Texan settled in with his shotgun and flashbang grenades, this time using a low wall of firewood as his bullet stop.

  He found it was far more difficult to stay alert, struggling to keep his focus sharp. Part of the reason was the off-hours, daytime sleep never seemed to satisfy as well as the natural nocturnal cycles.
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  Then there was the fact that he didn’t think anyone would venture into their valley this evening.

  After 90 minutes on watch, the Texan reached for the radio to check in. Maybe a few jokes with Butter or Grim would help him stay awake. His hand was about to close on the small device when the split logs around him erupted in a shower of splinters.

  Instinct saved Bishop’s life at that moment, his muscles forcing him to the ground before his brain ever registered that people were shooting at him.

  Round after round pounded his position, the volume and accuracy driving the Texan to make his body as prone and flat as possible. A storm of dirt, wood, and bark pelted his skin and clothing, filled his mouth and nose, and stung any exposed skin.

  What the fuck, he thought, trying to wiggle deeper into the soil. When did these guys learn to shoot like this? How in the hell did they get past our trip lines?

  The relentless, withering fire continued for several seconds, Bishop barely able to breathe, let alone bring his weapon into the fray. A thousand questions raced through his mind, not the least of which was how in the hell did they know his exact position.

  It then occurred to him that the incoming rounds were from weapons firing three round, automatic bursts. Only the U.S. Marines used that specific configuration. Where in the hell did a bunch of ranch hands get select-fire weapons? How did they suddenly learn to control them so well?

  About that time, Bishop had a terrifying insight. No one wasted that much ammo unless it was suppressive fire. That translated into a focused effort to keep him down, which meant someone was advancing on his position.

  Realizing his hide was about to be overrun by hostile visitors, the Texan commanded his body to rise high enough to reach one of the flashbangs hanging from his vest. He then forced his adrenaline-charged brain to focus on the angle of the incoming rounds.

  He knew the assaulters wouldn’t risk stepping into the line of friendly fire. They would be coming in from a different angle. That’s where he needed to throw the banger.