Holding Their Own: The Salt War (28 page)

Terri’s outburst was expected; her reasoning was not. “What? I disagree completely,” she began. What followed raised Bishop’s respect for his wife to new heights. “If the Alliance doesn’t act, that conflict could boil over into our territory. The two warring parties aren’t that far from our breadbasket along the Rio Grande, and if those farmers become embroiled in their quarrel, our food inventories could become collateral damage.”

Bishop grunted, not having considered that aspect. “Go on,” he said, trying to catch up with her.

“I spent my time trying to figure out which side we should support, and then pressuring the other into peaceful coexistence,” she answered.

“I pondered that as well, but historically, that hasn’t always worked out so well. Look at Vietnam, where we funded and died for the south while the Soviets supported the north. Neither of the superpowers got the return on investment they expected. We lost over 50,000 guys in the process.”

Terri nodded her understanding, but quickly countered. “True, but that strategy has also been extremely successful. Take Israel, for example. We poured money into that country for years and years. In the end, they were our only true ally in the region and grew into an incredibly strong nation.”

“But Israel didn’t conquer her enemies, and they ended up hating us for our support. I don’t think you can chalk that one up to a completely successful implementation of such a doctrine.”

They rode along for a bit, Bishop always keeping close watch on their surroundings, Terri trying to solve the Alliance’s problems.

After four hours in the saddle, Terri announced she, and her bottom, had endured enough of the genuine West Texas experience for one night.

“We’ll set up camp down in this gully,” Bishop said. “We can build a small fire, and it won’t be visible in such a low spot. I’ll even fix us something to eat.”

After tethering the horses, Bishop found dry kindling at the bottom of the wash, the flatland transitioning into a streambed during the rare desert rains. Most of the fuel was finger-thin, but the Texan knew that even skinny mesquite would burn for extended periods of time. It smelled pretty good, too.

As Terri unpacked and tended to Hunter, her husband went about setting up their campsite.

Bishop considered putting out tripwires but quickly decided against it. The desert here was too flat and open, making hiding and securing the devices difficult and ineffective. Besides, the horses would probably warn them of any approaching man or beast.

The meal was simple, reheated stew from the Culpepper kitchen and fresh green beans. Hunter enjoyed a small helping of each, as well as a bottle of goat’s milk warmed over the fire.

Bishop strung his survival net between an outcropping and a makeshift tent pole scavenged from the streambed. It provided a comfortable hammock when padded with their sleeping bags, allowing plenty of room for mother and son. “I’ll lean against that rock over there,” Bishop said. “If I doze off, fine, if not, I had a long nap this afternoon.”

Terri was too exhausted to debate the subject, she and Hunter soon snuggling in the thick covers, rocking gently back and forth while suspended in mid-air.

Bishop spent the night watching for shooting stars, searching the desert with his ears, and thinking about his family. He was happiest when they were together, whether it was the desolate regions of West Texas, the luxury RV his wife used as a mobile office, or the cramped confines of the camper at his ranch. The “where” didn’t matter, it was the company a man kept that improved the quality of life.

He fantasized about moving back to the ranch, of building a house, a herd, and having a nice, green garden. Chickens would be another staple, plus his skill with a rifle would supplement their diet with venison or game birds now and then.

But he knew it wouldn’t be. Terri was so critical to the Alliance, the people having seen her in action and trusting her judgment. He couldn’t blame them; his wife’s abilities to read people and originate creative solutions to big problems were a constant source of amazement to him.

How long could she last? Betty’s death in Galveston had been the first event to negatively impact his wife’s energy and determination – at least that he’d noticed. His battle wounds from the Brighton mission had given her pause, but when Terri had lost her best friend in the hurricane, it had wounded her soul deep and wide.

Then there was the complexity of her role. As the Alliance expanded its territories, more and more people wanted to play a part in the new government. This led to a nearly continuous state of disagreement with local officials, wanna-be lawmakers, and a host of other power-hungry folks. So many of them looked at his wife with disdain, their snarky attitude betraying unvoiced questions like, “What qualifications do you have to lead a government,” often bleeding through. She constantly had to prove herself, and that would wear on anybody, in any role. 

Yet, despite all that, Terri seemed to relish her job. Improving people’s quality of life provided a tremendous reward, the progress being made with the five directives a constant source of gratification. Bishop didn’t blame her, held no ill will over his wife’s recognition and power. His only regret was that they didn’t get much quality time together.

“I guess that’s a worthy sacrifice,” he mumbled under his breath, glancing at the moonlit outline of her serene, slumbering countenance. “She’s a good mom and loyal wife who is helping millions of people. What man could ask any more of his spouse?”

The sound of morning birds caused Bishop to startle, his neck and back sore from sleeping against the rock. “The false dawn is breaking in the east,” he noted. “I must have nodded off.”

A quick check of their surroundings told him everything was okay. Terri was still out, Hunter resting comfortably beside her. Neither man nor beast threatened the camp.

He watered the horses and then began packing up their kit. Hunter would get a breakfast of milk; Terri and he would enjoy nibbling jerky in the saddle.

An hour later they were back on the trail, heading mostly north and west towards Meraton. It wasn’t the perfect departure. Terri was complaining of a sore backside, Hunter deciding he didn’t like the papoose anymore. Bishop shrugged it all off, resolving to take more breaks and act more like a husband and less like a trail boss ramrodding a cattle drive.

There was no hurry, no urgency to rush or push. Other than personal comforts and better food, it wouldn’t make that much difference if they arrived in Meraton tomorrow or the following day.

Victor was doing better, his flat nose and blackened raccoon eyes looking worse than the man claimed they felt. They had moved the truck back to the original hiding place, every member of the team more comfortable after increasing the distance between themselves and the turmoil in Cartersville.

But that sentiment quickly changed, driven by the doctor’s concern over who would fill the vacuum left by the death of the top two men.

“The town made a rushed, desperate decision after the collapse,” the physician stated. “Stan stepped up, and like his nickname suggests, did an excellent job of spreading the good word and making the tough calls. I’m afraid of what will happen now that he’s gone.”

Nick spoke up, waiting for his coffee water to heat over a small fire. “My guess is that some folks will side with the truckers; others will go with the remaining deputies. It wouldn’t surprise me if the whole thing didn’t turn into a miniature civil war.”

“That’s exactly what we have to go back and prevent,” countered Dr. Hines. “There needs to be a clear voice of reason. Someone leading the town towards elections and a government like we once had.”

“What’s to stop the teamsters or the deputies from shooting you the minute you step foot in town?” Grim asked.

“That’s just a chance we’re going to have to take,” replied the physician, a quiet Victor nodding a painful agreement. “But we’ve got to move fast before someone with dictatorial leanings moves in and gets one side or the other to rally around him.”

“I can take you back,” Nick stated coldly, “but we can’t get involved in any civil dispute. We’ll see you through the gate and hang around for an hour. After that, you’re on your own.”

“How about a different approach,” Victor mumbled, his words difficult to understand. “Are there running trucks that can haul the trailers?”

Grim thought about the question for a moment, brightening when he realized where the merchant was going. “Yes, we saw a couple of refrigerator units still hooked to their trucks. We could hear the diesel motors running.”

“So why don’t we go hijack a couple of the more valuable trucks, crash them through the gate and pull up right on the courthouse square? We can open the trailer doors and prove to everyone what has been going on?”

“That would make a statement,” Nick conceded. “It would get everyone’s attention, no doubt about it.”

The team’s leader stood, towering over the small fire. After sipping his coffee for a few moments, he scanned the faces of his comrades and conceded, “Why the hell not? In for a penny, in for a pound.”

Grim smiled, clearly in sync with the idea. He pulled on his chest rig and then started checking his rifle. Kevin and Cory weren’t far behind.

An hour later, Nick was approaching the gate that led to the trailer lot Grim and Kevin had scouted. A single sentry appeared from the guard shack, the man raising his arm to signal the approaching truck to stop.

Grim’s rifle barrel greeted the surprised fellow as he marched up to the truck. It didn’t require any additional persuasion for him to open the gate. Evidently, the sentry had aspirations involving future sexual relationships – promptly answering each and every question after Nick threatened to demonstrate his “castrating knife.”

The team learned that several experienced, over the road drivers were in the area, three such experts resting comfortably in the lot’s office building, the cots supposedly in the back room.

Describing the SAINT team’s entry into the facility as a “rude awakening” would have been an understatement. One of the rousted drivers, staring into the muzzle of Grim’s rifle, went so far as to announce he thought it was “damn rude.” Less than 15 minutes after crashing the gate, Nick watched as three trucks were being hitched to the trailers identified by Grim and Kevin.

Each truck carried not only valuable cargo in the back, but housed one of the Alliance men in front - just to make sure the driver didn’t deviate from the proper route.

Nick, along with his two VIPs from Cartersville, followed in the pickup.

The large Peterbilt tractor didn’t slow down for the north gate, crashing through and sending the guards scrambling for their lives. Grim enjoyed flipping the sentries a middle finger as they roared past.

The rest of the convoy rolled by unmolested, Nick noting that the once bullying guards seemed to have lost a lot of their bluster. He decided that was a positive development.

The streets were nearly deserted, most people afraid to come out of their homes after the previous evening’s violence. The long row of tables, as well as much of the food, sat undisturbed from the night before.  Someone had moved Stan and the chief’s bodies. Blood still stained the platform’s wooden surface.

“Where is everybody?” Victor mumbled through his still throbbing face.

“They’ll show up. Let’s get out and walk around. We need to be visible, to let everyone know it’s us,” the doctor suggested.

After ten minutes, no one appeared.

Cory spied the bullhorn, still resting on the stage where it had fallen from Stan’s dead hand. He wandered over and picked it up, pushing the button to test the device. It still worked.

He stepped over and handed the amplifier to the healer. “Let them know you’re here,” came the suggestion.

The SAINT team watched as the physician walked around the square, broadcasting various announcements and letting the townsfolk know it was safe to come out. For a bit, Nick was worried the noise would attack hostiles as well. He sent his men to cover, instructing them to stay out of sight unless troublemakers made an appearance.

Gradually, one by one, a few of the town’s men peeked around or cautiously showed themselves. After 20 minutes, a small crowd had gathered, peering inside the semis at Victor’s invitation.

The first armed men to arrive were a pair of ex-deputies still wearing the uniforms from the night before. Both men, after a brief conversation with the sawbones, pledged their support to the promised democratic initiative, agreeing that it was high time the town held elections.

Slowly the crowd grew in size, Victor and Dr. Hines circulating to greet each arrival and explain about the content of the trucks.

Everyone tensed when the first truckers arrived, Nick’s men raising their rifles and ready to fight. It was an unnecessary precaution as it quickly became clear the haulers weren’t in the mood to cause any problems. They had no place to go and wanted to stay and help rebuild the town.

Not everyone wanted to sit around the campfire and sing songs, however. A few disagreements broke out here and there, but gunplay never became an issue. “Use your vote, not your gun,” the doctor repeatedly reminded.

It was early afternoon when Nick ordered his team to mount up. He took the doctor aside and handed the temporary town leader a pre-printed sheet containing instructions on how and who to contact in the Alliance.

“We’ll be sending a team back in here in a few days,” the big man promised. “They can help you get organized, even set up trade and communications. Until then, you can contact us on these frequencies, or send a messenger to these towns. Good luck.”

As they approached the south gate, anxious to get home to Alliance territory, Nick had to stop the truck. All four of the team watched out the front windshield as an oversized farm tractor pulled away part of the barricade, opening a road that had been closed for years.

“Now that’s progress,” Nick observed with a huge grin. “This is an important lesson for all of us. The council’s security directive doesn’t mean a bunch of armed men standing around and maintaining order. Convicts in a jail have that, but they aren’t free. Cartersville needed to establish order, and while that was an absolute necessity for a while, in the long run it didn’t offer true security. The proper meaning of the term has a much broader and deeper definition. Security involves personal liberty, freedom of choice, unrestricted movement, and self-determination. It has always amazed me how easily ‘maintaining control’ morphs into restriction, intimidation, and authority through fear. I hope our friends back there will never forget the experience.”

“Do you really think it will stick?” a pessimistic Grim asked from the back seat. “I have my doubts, and history justifies that lack of optimism. Don’t you remember all sorts of trouble with pre-collapse police forces crossing the line? The same with government as a whole, all that bickering and debate over intrusion into private lives versus national security. I don’t think you’ll ever get two people to agree to a definition of the word, let alone an entire society.”

Nick had to admit it; Grim had a valid point. He didn’t respond for a while, watching the east Texas countryside pass, formulating his response as they rolled toward home. Eventually, he came out with it, “Security isn’t a static thing. It’s not fixed, like a set of written rules that once implemented, never need to be modified. You must constantly gauge the needs of the community and adjust. Like my drill instructors used to say, ‘How can you improve if you don’t measure?’ But people don’t want to do that. They don’t want to take the time or put in the energy until something comes up and bites them in the ass. Then, all of a sudden, the sky is falling. The pitchforks and torches come out, common folks demanding the shroud of tyranny be lifted from their lives. Years later, the whole thing repeats. It’s an unfortunate cycle.”

“So how do you fix it, Dad?” Kevin asked.

“I wish I knew, son. We, as a species, have been repeating the same mistake since two of us moved into a common cave for safety and convenience. It’s always been that way, and I’ll be damned if I have a solution. But look at the bright side – guys like Grim and me remain employed because of this madness. If people were perfect, I would be jobless, and Grim would probably be living under a bridge somewhere.”

A grunt came from the back. “I can just see your dad holding up a homemade sign at an intersection,” Grim spouted. “Hungry. Broke. Will topple third world governments, assassinate foreign leaders, instigate revolutions, or train insurgents for food.”

Mr. Culpepper sat on his chestnut bay, stoic and unmoving, the squeak of saddle leather and light desert breeze the only sounds.

Whitey was behind him, as well as two other hands just out of earshot, both diligent and alert. There was a range war on, and taking chances lead to shortened life spans.

It bothered Culpepper that he had to ride with extra men, a state of affairs that he considered wasteful. Whitey and his boys should be out mending fences, checking the herd, or repairing water mills, not playing bodyguard for a man doing nothing more than traveling across his own spread.

Live with the times
, he thought.
Don’t fight them. You’ll lose
.

The messenger from the neighboring 888 Ranch had arrived yesterday, a layer of trail dust indicating the man had ridden hard and fast to deliver the invitation. Ward Hamlin was the long-time owner of the expansive spread and had sent word requesting a powwow. Culpepper hoped it would be good news.

Waiting next to the fence that separated the two ranches, he tried to remember the last time he’d seen old Ward. Had it been at Christmas three years ago? Four?

The fact that bordering neighbors didn’t lay eyes on each other for long stretches of time wasn’t unusual. With holdings counted in square miles rather than acres, the neighbor next door might be over two-hour’s drive or a full day’s ride away by horseback.

Culpepper had been in Alpha before his last visit to the triple-8, purchasing barbed wire, water tanks, and a half-mile of pipe. He’d been waiting at the cash register when a display had caught his eye, a chess set with well-crafted marble pieces depicting western figurines.

Holiday spirit wasn’t a normal state of mind for the rancher, but he understood the need and intent for an event that required folks to think of someone besides themselves. On a rare impulse, he picked up the item, thinking of his old friend Ward.

When they were younger, single men of less responsibility, the two ran together. Sometimes they would manage a trip to Alpha, cruising into the “big city” via automobile - If Ward’s pa would give up the keys to his baby-blue Cadillac convertible. Those excursions were legendary, the two tall, thin young men rambling into town with visions of carousing, beer, and female companionship at the forefront of their agenda.

But sharing the fast lane wasn’t the true basis of their friendship. On many occasions, the chores, obligations, and circumstances of life didn’t allow for shenanigans involving Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, Country and Western music, unfiltered Marlboro cigarettes, and swirling dance floor skirts.