Holding Their Own: The Salt War (10 page)

“Beats the heck out of sleeping on a rock,” Terri announced to her son, running a sink full of water with the intent of rinsing the desert grit off both their bodies.

A few moments later, a naked Hunter was enjoying a rather enthusiastic splashing session in the basin. A knock on the door signaled Chita was back, the woman’s arms full of clothing, including a cute, little outfit for the baby. Terri thanked her with a smile, happy at the prospect of clean duds.

“Are you hungry?” Chita asked in heavily accented English. “Does your son need food as well?”

“Yes, if it’s not too much trouble,” Terri responded. “That and sleep. Neither of us has slept much lately.”

“Mr. Culpepper wishes to speak with you after you’ve freshened up and had a chance to eat. I’m sure you’ll have an opportunity to rest after that. I’ll bring you both some food.”

Terri eyed the bathroom’s shower, but was unsure of what to do with the currently occupied and thoroughly delighted Hunter. As nice as the accommodations were, the ranch was not equipped with a playpen for the wriggling infant. She decided to take him into the water with her. There was even soap.

Twenty minutes later, Terri was escorted outside to the front porch where a man rested on a lawn chair, observing a long line of riders exit the main compound. Complete with western plaid shirt and faded blue jeans, his dress was that of a man who spent most of his life in the saddle. Only the snakeskin boots set the man apart as a gentleman of means. A timeworn Stetson shaded a face lined with worry and fatigue, but Terri was most uneasy about the melancholy look in his eyes.

Upon sensing Terri’s presence, the leather-skinned man stood and removed his hat. “My name is Sam Culpepper,” he began. “I’m the ramrod of this outfit. Have been for 46 years.”

“I’m Terri,” came the reply, “and this is my son, Hunter.”

Indicating Terri should sit in a nearby chair, Mr. Culpepper returned to his own perch. Chita appeared with a tray, conspicuously empty but for two glasses of water.

“I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything else,” the old man stated. “Times are difficult, to say the least.”

“I want to thank you for the kindness you’ve shown my son and me already, Mr. Culpepper. You’ve been a most gracious host.”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving the seemingly endless line of riders now stretching toward the horizon.

“Where are they going, if I may ask?” Terri ventured.

“They’re going back to Windy Ridge and the valley beyond. I hope they find your husband alive and well, but I’m not optimistic about that. According to my men… at least the ones who made it out alive… the Tejanos had many rifles in that valley last night.” He returned to the seat, folded his arms, and sighed heavily while considering his next words. “This war is escalating. I guess we’re going to have to fight at night now. I should have seen that coming.”

Terri let his statement settle, hoping he would continue without her prompting or prying. He didn’t.

“Can you tell me about this conflict?” she asked gently. “My husband and I seem to have become involved somehow.”

He grunted, nodding his head. “Yes, you have. There’s not much to tell really. On the north side of my property lies a large salt bed. It is quite the anomaly out here in the desert. Some years ago, a geologist from A&M was out this way and asked to take a look at it. We rode out there, and he told me how it was formed. He explained that a prehistoric lake had existed below the surface, and as the saltwater evaporated, it pushed the mineral to the surface. The salt is nearly pure and finely granulated – a rare occurrence in nature.”

“I think I’ve seen it,” Terri responded, remembering an escape from Fort Bliss and a stolen ATV. “My husband was raised around here, and he pointed it out to me a long time ago.”

“It was really an eyesore for years,” Sam continued. “Over a thousand acres of basically useless land. Nothing grows there, and cattle don’t require all that much salt. Back during normal times, nobody paid much attention to it. It was cheaper and easier to go to the grocery store or have a truck deliver packaged salt.”

“We found out the hard way how important salt is,” Terri said. “After we got here from Houston, it seemed like we were always short on salt.”

“Back in the Old West, that salt bed was an important resource,” Sam noted. “Silver was minded in this area for years, and the miners would haul off the salt by the wagon load and use it for the refining process. The settlers also used it to preserve meat, filter water, and make everything from soap to laundry detergent. The war we’re fighting now isn’t the first scuffle over that damned mineral. About 150 years ago, there was another conflict people called the ‘El Paso Salt War.’ A lot of men died then, too.”

Terri tilted her head, never having heard that part of Texas’s history before. Again, Mr. Culpepper fell silent.

She was just about to ask him about the current dispute when a rider approached the house. Terri recognized Whitey from last night. “We’re leaving you short-handed here, Mr. Culpepper. There are only twenty men left hereabouts. We’ll be watching for a flare if they hit the ranch.”

Sam nodded his understanding. “You be careful, Whitey. We’ve already lost enough men to those animals. Bring everybody back, including this lady’s husband if you find him.”

Whitey tipped his hat and said, “Will do, sir,” and then rode off, spurring his horse to catch up with the long column of riders.

“Are you expecting a major battle?” Terri asked, impressed at the show of force.

“No. They’ll fade away, back across the river and into the hills. I fought in ‘Nam… battled the Viet Cong. They used the same tactics against us for years. The Tejanos won’t make a stand unless they have superior numbers. It’s a classic guerrilla warfare tactic. If I don’t send out a large party, they’ll ambush us. If I do respond with a large force, I waste valuable resources chasing ghosts.”

Terri could hear the frustration in the man’s voice and now understood his sadness. Before she could say anything else, he stood and looked her in the eye. “That’s why I sent my men back last night… sent them to retrieve you and your husband. I hear he’s a fighting man, and I’m about at my wit’s end. I was hoping he could come up with a solution, but instead I lost eight good men and now have you and your son to feed and shelter. You and I both are praying we find him this morning.”

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.”