Holding Their Own: The Salt War (7 page)

With a few hushed commands and vivid hand motions, he scattered his men to the rocks. He watched as best he could, the slender moon providing little light. Taking one last glance around, he was pleased – this was as good a place to set a trap as any. Rocco moved off to join his men and wait for the fly to enter the spider’s web.

Whitey wasn’t worried about an ambush, at least not from the Tejanos. His adversary never operated at night, and his own posse was venturing only a few miles from the ranch. While the enemy had gotten bolder over the last few weeks, his own men were still deep in Culpepper territory. Given the vast expanses of the desert and the hazy moon, the chances of two parties bumping into each other were next to nil.

This Bishop fellow… he might be another story.

Hutch and Reed were leading the way, fresh animals and a quick meal improving the two riders’ resolve. The foreman hoped the cowpokes could remember the way back to the newcomers’ hiding place, prayed this Bishop character wasn’t trigger happy when it came to noises in the night. He planned to shout a greeting when they got close – approach under a white flag. It was risky… but the best he could manage.

As they wound their way up Windy Ridge, the boulder field grew denser. With every step, Whitey grew more apprehensive; the route was making him uncomfortable. The high rock formations provided a million hiding places, the rough terrain difficult on the horses. It just wasn’t a good place to operate after sunset.

He reined in his mount, pulling to the side of the trail and listening while the remainder of his men and the pack animals passed.
We’re making too much noise
, he determined.
That’s the problem with horses; it’s almost impossible to keep them still.

Glancing toward the front of his column, Whitey could barely make out the lead rider in the distance.
Not a good night to be out hunting for man nor beast
, he mused.

Despite the lack of vision, he knew the territory well enough to determine they were going to have to dismount and walk the animals in a few minutes. That would slow them down even more.

Rocco watched the shadowy forms of the riders pass below him, his heart filled with both fear and excitement. For once, they were in the right place at the right time, his men on both sides of the trail being followed by the Salineros. It took all of his discipline to remain still, his adrenaline-charged system demanding oxygen, the fear of impending combat forcing his body to be absolutely silent, not even chancing a breath.
Wait
, he kept thinking.
Wait until the last rider is in our midst - then we can kill them all.

And then there weren’t any more men passing beneath the Tejanos leader. He could still see the outline of one man, the cowboy idling beside the trail. Slowly, ever so cautiously, Rocco raised his rifle, centering the front post of his sights on the target. He flipped off the safety, his tingling body jerking at the seemingly thunder-like click.

Bishop knew someone was very, very close. He just didn’t know where. A muted sound that suggested the slightest brush of cloth against rock, a hint of human movement in the night betrayed the attacker. It was more instinct than fact.

With his muscles charged to react, ears searching the night, the Texan slowly placed one boot in front of the other, rolling each step from toe to heel so as not to make a sound. His rifle was high against his shoulder, sweeping all around as he scanned with the night vision.

The metallic click of Rocco’s safety told Bishop to duck. The Texan recognized the sound immediately, his body tensing for the impact of a bullet. After a few moments, when no pain tore through him, he began to consider that perhaps he wasn’t the target.

Replaying the sound in his mind, Bishop thought the rifle’s owner was right around the edge of the truck-sized slab of rock he’d been negotiating. Recovering, he continued to circle the formation, now more vigilant than ever.

Rocco’s finger applied pressure to the trigger just as the barrel of his weapon came into the view of Bishop’s night vision, less than ten feet away. The Texan’s thumb flipped off his own safety a moment before the black night erupted into complete bedlam.

In reality, the clicking noise of Bishop’s carbine saved Whitey’s life. The ranch foreman hadn’t survived the numerous firefights with the Tejanos without developing cat-like reactions; allowing him to duck low in the saddle the moment the metallic noise reached his ears.

Bishop’s NVD shut down, the billowing ball of white light spewing from Rocco’s shot overrode the device’s safety circuit. He found himself blinded and utterly confused. He wasn’t the only one.

Rocco’s shot was the signal to his men, gunfire erupting up and down the trail. Hutch was hit instantly, a 12-gauge blast tearing the unaware cowboy completely out of the saddle.

The calm, quiet Texas night exploded in complete mayhem as the ambush was unleashed, men on both sides wondering if the doors of hell had suddenly opened in the middle of the desert.

Horses shrieked and bolted, bright flashes of gunfire strobing up and down the darkened trail like the sheet lightning of a desert thunderstorm. Hot lead filled the air, a nearly constant roar of shouting men, firing weapons, and the screaming of the wounded governing the night.

The Culpepper men weren’t trained soldiers, but they were all combat veterans. Caught in the middle of the Tejanos’ kill-zone, they should have withered and died in a few moments. Darkness, poor marksmanship, and the confusion of their opponent increased their chances of survival.

The riders dismounted, some on purpose, others having no choice as their horses were shot out from underneath them. They scrambled for the nearest cover, returning fire as best they could.

Initially, the Tejanos sensed victory, many of them exposing themselves to gain a better angle on the fleeing men below. Their overconfidence was an error, and the battlefield punished missteps.

Desperate, bewildered, and expecting to meet their maker, the cowboys along the trail had no target except for the muzzle flashes surrounding them in the rocks. It was enough, their return fire wreaking havoc on the Tejano shooters.

In less than a minute, the ambushed Salineros were climbing, scaling, and rushing into their enemy, the pitched battle breaking down into a dozen small skirmishes of close-quarters fighting. It was brutal.

Night fighting, even amongst professionals, is a soldier’s worst nightmare. To accomplish coordination, communication, and effective maneuver without the benefit of daylight requires countless hours of drills, state of the art equipment, and competent commanders. Neither side possessed such assets.

Despite being hardened by the months of conflict and extreme individual bravery, the battle devolved into a swirling fur ball of small, man-to-man clashes.

Bishop wanted none of it. After the initial shock and awe, it had taken the Texan a few moments to ascertain what was happening around him. When he realized none of the gunfire was aimed specifically at him, his only thoughts were of Terri and Hunter.

But retracing his steps proved impossible.

Men were darting in all directions, shouting, shooting, and sometimes dying. Twice Bishop had to innovate his route back to Terri’s hide, the boiling conflict rambling across the desert floor and blocking his path.

After a few minutes, he approached what he believed to be Terri’s nook, only to find the indentation empty. Cursing their bad luck, he began to circle cautiously, desperately wanting to avoid the fight raging around him.

Having the only NVD on the battlefield gave the Texan an advantage, the device now rebooted and functional. More than once he cut away from gunfire, snaking his away around the roving combatants. But he couldn’t find Terri and his son. The rocks were beginning to look the same, dodging the rolling skirmish interfering with his sense of direction.

Anger and regret started to well up deep inside Bishop’s gut. His mind flashed images of a frightened, huddling Terri, clutching Hunter close as the battle raged around her. He should have never left her side. What the hell had he been thinking?

Bishop paused, keeping close to a flat stone formation and trying to reorient his position. He noticed the two men stalking him, both moving forward as if they believed he was an enemy. Splinters and chips of stone stung the Texan’s skin as the two shadowy outlines began firing, Bishop diving to put cover between his body and the shooters. He found he was trapped in a dead end, completely surrounded by solid walls of rock.

“I’ve got no dog in this fight,” he whispered, praying the two attackers would move on. Chancing a glance around the corner, he saw they were still advancing in his direction, weapons high and ready.

“Fuck!” he snapped, the red dot of his aiming optic showing bright against the NVD’s darker display. He centered on the green and black image of the nearest man. Bishop squeezed, the carbine pushing gently against his shoulder. Two shots - realign on the second man, two shots. Both attackers went down instantly.

The act made his stomach hurt, that pain quickly morphing into a simmering anger. “What choice did I have?” he kept asking himself. “They probably aren’t taking any prisoners.” Still, it sickened him. Bishop had no quarrel with either side. Killing was difficult enough when an undeniable threat existed, taking human life because of bad timing didn’t settle well in his gut. Memories of the Brighton bloodbath surfaced, vivid images and the smell of death filling his senses.

He retreated into the miniature box canyon, hoping to avoid any more killing by staying out of sight. Fighting back the urge to wretch, Bishop pulled a quick drink from his water tube, his mind struggling between the need to stay put, and the unrelenting anxiety to find his wife and child.

A barely audible moaning at his feet nearly caused him to kill again.

His weapon snapped to the source of the noise, his finger automatically applying pressure to the trigger. It was a microsecond of hesitation that stopped him from ending another life. He hadn’t seen the wounded man the first time, all of his attention focused on the two gentlemen chasing him through the rocks.

The guy at his feet was bleeding and obviously in some pain. After checking that no one was sneaking up on his hiding spot, Bishop bent and began examining the wounded fighter.

There was a single bullet wound in the fleshy part of the upper arm, another in his calf. Neither appeared to be life threatening. Bishop found more bleeding on the back of the guy’s head, but there wasn’t any apparent lead damage there. After glancing up at the surrounding rock, the Texan decided the gent had been hit and then had fallen from above.

Bishop rose, checking to make sure he was still undetected. The sounds of gunfire continued to rage throughout the area, the occasional shout of a human voice echoing over the rocks. The din wasn’t constant like it had had been, but it was clear there were still plenty of men fighting for their lives.

Pulling the blow-out bag from his vest, Bishop did some quick work on the injured man, spraying both bullet wounds with an antibiotic aerosol and then wrapping each with a bandage.

“Aqua,” the fellow croaked in a weak voice. “Aqua.”

Despite the guilt of having killed that night, Bishop’s kindness only extended so far. He had no desire to allow some stranger drink from his limited supply, didn’t know the guy well enough to swap oral germs. But, the injured man wouldn’t shut up. 
There was still combat raging all around the Texan’s position. Bishop wanted nothing more than to remain out of sight and wait for the conflict to die down. The wounded, still-dazed man knew none of this. Every few seconds, he repeated his plea for water, his voice gradually becoming stronger as the time passed, sure to draw attention from the roving skirmishers still engaged throughout the area.

The Texan knew what the man was experiencing. Fighting was damn thirsty work. Any loss of blood made things more desperate. The body would be working hard to replace its fluid, and that meant water. Bishop had been there – far too many times.

Again, the raspy voice begged for a drink. Frustrated, almost crazy with worry about Terri and his son, Bishop stepped to the prone man and took a knee. His hand reached for the fighting knife strapped to his chest rig, palm closing around the weapon’s familiar tang.

But he couldn’t do it. It just wasn’t right.

“Open your mouth,” he whispered, changing his grip from the knife to his water-tube. The wounded fellow’s eyes opened, but his lips remained tightly pursed. “Open your mouth,” Bishop repeated, his voice louder than intended.