Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star (17 page)

Something in the question bothered the pastor. Almost
as if a dark storm was building behind his eyes, Bishop actually thought the man was going to become angry. The expression passed quickly, but the Texan was sure he’d read the flash of mood correctly.

“Why don’t you folks enjoy a self-guided tour while I check with our facilities manager and see where we can find
you some place to hang your hat?” Boyd suggested, completely ignoring Bishop’s question.

“Sounds good,” Terri replied, hefting Hunter on her hip. “I’m dying to see more.”

Finally smiling again, Boyd pointed toward the HQ building. “Stop back in an hour or so, and by then I’ll have figured out your new address. Enjoy your stroll.” And with that, the preacher pivoted and headed for the door.

Bishop made eye contact with Terri and shrugged his shoulders. While his wife worked on Hunter’s papoose, he reached into the cab and pulled out his rifle. It was purely habit.

“You won’t need that here,” sounded Dean’s gruff voice over his shoulder. “As a matter of fact, it’s not allowed.”

“Not allowed?”

“We have teenagers here from some pretty rough environments. Personal firearms are forbidden. Only my security men carry weapons of any sort. Please leave all of your guns in your truck until I can make arrangements for you to surrender them.”

“Surrender?” Bishop asked, his voice suddenly very monotone and low.

Dean wasn’t intimidated. “My assumption is that Pastor Pearson will want you to check your weapons in with us. If one of these kids accidently stumbled upon your rifle, someone might get hurt… or worse.”

Bishop stepped into the man, coming close to Dean’s face. “I don’t know what your issue is with me, sir, and frankly, I don’t care. What I will make absolutely clear… right here… right now… is that no one is taking our weapons. Not you, not some kid. If those are the rules of this facility, then we’ll be on our way.”

Dean didn’t respond for a second, struggling to keep his temper in check. The Texan was ready for an assault, his weight shifting forward, his stance coiled. It was almost as if he wanted to get down with the camp’s security man right then and there – go ahead and get it over with.

But Dean didn’t initiate, instead exhaling and repeating, “Please leave your weapons in the truck.”

“No problem,” Bishop replied, his state of readiness unchanged.

The two men had a short, visual showdown, and then Dean
did an abrupt about-face, briskly walking away. As Bishop turned to lock the rifle in his truck, he noticed a group of teenage girls standing at the edge of the lot, his encounter an obvious topic of whispered conversation. The young ladies seemed to be amazed. So was Terri.

“We’ve only known these people for a couple of hours, and already you
’re making new friends,” she said, the sarcasm dripping from her voice.

“I don’t like that guy… not one bit,” her husband grunted.

“No? Really? I would have never guessed.”

Bishop hit the lock button on the key fob and turned to face his wife. “Something’s wrong here. Did you see Boyd’s reactio
n when I asked about the townspeople?”

“Yes, and I agree it was a little odd, but you don’t know what they went through before bugging out.
He might have lost some friends or had to bury members of his flock. We’ve seen worse.”

Bishop nodded, conceding Terri’s logic. “Okay, I’ll give it the benefit of the doubt… for right now. But we aren’t giving up our weapons,
my dear. I don’t care how picturesque this valley is.”

“Oh, I agree with you on that point, my love,” she replied. “But I bet the good pastor will be fine with them being locked away in our truck. Put yourself in Dean’s place for a minute. If you were in charge of everyone’s safety, wouldn’t you want to disarm the strangers?”

Bishop grunted, his wife’s point reasonable – as usual. “Perhaps. But I would go about it differently.”

“Oh, I am quite sure you would
,” she teased.

“Let’s walk around for a bit,” he suggested, wanting to change the subject.

As the couple turned to begin their tour, Terri leaned forward and whispered to Hunter, “Your dad hates it when I’m right. Just remember that – Mom’s always right.”

“I heard that,” Bishop chuckled. “And Hunter, she
is
always right.”

Camp Pinion, New Mexico

July 3
1

Whoever designed the layout of the camp had been fond of circles. As Bishop and Terri strolled about, they eventually picked up on the fact that the entire facility was laid out in the shape of a wagon wheel. The showers, locker rooms, primary meeting hall, and swimming pool were all clustered together at the center, or the hub.

Several avenues, gravel-
topped paths barely wide enough for a car to pass, radiated outward from the hub, like spokes of a wheel. They were lined with numbered cabins, each reminding Bishop of the ranch-style bunkhouses of his youth. Scattered between the sleeping quarters was the occasional storage building.

Keeping with the mountain forest theme, all of the structures were constructed of logs, topped off with green metal roofs of significant pitch. Each was equipped with solar panels. The builders had left as many native trees as possible, a touch the couple appreciated. They found a few spots where a path or porch had been rerouted or modified in orde
r to preserve the natural environment and break up the right angles of the architecture.

The residents were busy. Several men
were chopping and stacking firewood while another lesser group was tanning a deer hide. Children darted here and there, their laughter and shouts filling the air and distracting Hunter who seemed to be trying to ascertain the source of younger voices.

The women of the camp bustled about, a few carrying baskets filled with clothing
. Others huddled in small social groups while they darned socks and mended clothing.
Must be laundry day
, Terri mused.

Bishop noted the people were all thin, but not to the extreme of malnourishment. Their strides were purposeful and steady, but not energetic. He watched as two younger girls, in their late teens, struggle
d with a bushel basket of brownish-looking seed pods.

“What do they have in that basket?” Terri asked.

“Those are mesquite beans… or that’s what we use to call them. You can grind them up and make a pretty tasty flour.”

Terri craned her neck to look as the girls walked by. “You mean like those wood chips you use to burn on the grill? The ones that made the meat taste so yummy?”

“Yup. One and the same. If they have a supply of mesquite nearby, it’s a great source of food and wood. My dad called it “Texas Ironwood” because it’s so hard. He used to complain about how quickly it would dull a chainsaw, but it makes sturdy furniture.”

The couple followed the two young women, eventually arriving at the mill. After dumping their cargo into a large
pot of boiling water, they stepped to a nearby table, obviously intent on quenching their thirst. Terri watched fascinated as another woman scooped a strainer full of the now-droopy pods from the pot and set it aside to dry.

“Check that out,” Bishop said, pointing with a nod of his head toward another three ladies working a stone mortar and pestle on the seeds. Jars of off-white flour displayed the fruit of their labor.
He continued, “When I was a kid on the ranch, we considered the mesquite a pest. It sucks up water, is almost impossible to clear out of a fencerow and every varmint from javelina to coyotes like to eat the seeds. There’s an irony in all this – seeing something we tried to eradicate now helping people survive.”

“
Javelina?”

“Skunk pigs.”

“Ahhh… why didn’t you say so in the first place,” Terri replied, rolling her eyes.

“If they have a lot of m
esquite around, I bet they have some of the best honey you’ve ever tasted. We’ll have to see if we can barter for some… if we stay.”

They continued the stroll, observing everything from honey being strained to clothing being mended. The entire camp was bustling. 

“It reminds me of Meraton during the market… in a way,” Terri observed. “The way everyone is working together, sharing resources and responsibilities in their community.”

Bishop nodded agreement, “I imagine most frontier towns had a similar appearance, minus the solar panels
, of course.”   

The outer perimeter of what amounted to a small
settlement was ringed by another circular road, this one paved and wide enough for two cars to pass.

The family conti
nued the hike, admiring both the natural beauty and the effort required to blend in the man-made structures. It was a quaint, calm place that no doubt resonated with those who loved nature. Their wandering eventually led them to the lake, where again they discovered an impressive attention to detail and forethought by the architects.

An unobtr
usive dock had been populated with over a dozen canoes and a like number of paddle and rowboats. Sand had been poured to create a small beach, hidden between two stone outcroppings. The lifeguard’s perch was carved into the rock, a stealthy local overwatch as compared to the typical wooden tower. There were even spikes driven into the granite, a life-saving throw buoy hanging on each.

“The water’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Terri said, nodding toward the crystal clear lake.

“It sure is. This whole valley is like a paradise. It makes it a little easier to rationalize the townsfolk pulling up stakes and moving up here. I’d be tempted, even if I weren’t hungry or thirsty.”

“Look
, Hunter! Fish!” Terri interrupted, pointing as two smallmouth bass gracefully swam past.

Hunter seemed uninterested, but
his parents knew that would change in a few years. “There will come a point in time where we won’t be able to keep him away from water,” Bishop observed. “We’ll be on constant vigilance to make sure he doesn’t wander in and drown.”

“Oh, I don’t look forward to that. He’s so easy right now,” the lad’s mother commented.

Watching the fish continue on their way, Bishop observed a fishing lure arch through the air, landing with precision just a few yards in front of the bass. “Someone’s getting a line wet. Let’s go see how they’re doing.”

The trio of Texans followed the lakeside path, winding their way through the outcroppings of rock that bordered the
shoreline. Rounding a colorful, house-sized formation of stone, they spied two young men standing with fishing poles, thin nylon lines running into the water.

“Catching anything?” Bishop inquired, his voice friendly and curious.

Both young heads snapped around, the lads’ eyes wide with horror. Both dropped their poles and ran like the wind, quickly disappearing into the surrounding crevices and woods.

Bishop turned to look at Terri, an expression of surprise on his face. “What did I say?”

Terri shrugged, “Maybe your reputation precedes you,” she teased. Then, she added, “I’m sure their parents have warned them to run if a stranger approaches. Like we keep saying, these are troubling times. We probably shouldn’t have snuck up on them.”

“I guess,” Bishop
was skeptical. “But did you see the look in their eyes? It was like I’d caught them with their hand in the cookie jar or something.”

Bishop walked down to the shore, reeling in both poles and securing the lures. “I’ll take these back to the camp. They’re not making
new ones anymore.”

They
made their way back to the hub of activity, cooing to Hunter and generally enjoying the stroll. As they reached the edge of the camp, Bishop noticed Dean making a beeline directly toward them.

The camp’s security man noticed the fishing poles in Bishop’s hand and scowled. “Fishing is strictly regulated here. Where did you get those?”

“We found them down by the shore. Looked like someone forgot to take them home,” Terri responded, not wanting to get anyone in trouble.

Dean shook his head, his tone accusing. “Not likely. The reverend doesn’t want to deplete the lake’s population and rations the catch. So I’m going to ask again, where did you
find
those poles?”

Bishop didn’t like the gentleman’s
tone, Dean’s inflection clearly indicating he believed they had stolen the tackle. Bishop decided to let their accuser know of his displeasure. “You’d better mellow your tone, friend. Where I’m from, calling someone a thief is a serious charge… one that could meet with a painful response.”

“You Texans with your high and mighty attitude, always thinking you should be above reproach just because of some stupid birth
right. It’s ridiculous. For all I know, you’re both scum. It wouldn’t surprise me if you stole that truck and camper from some poor soul. Wouldn’t shock me one bit.”

A few of the camp’s residents were gathering around, keeping their distance but still curious about the confrontation. Bishop started to take a step clo
ser to Dean, his shoulders thrust back, fists clenched into tight balls.

Terri noticed two more men with rifles hustling toward the crowd. She pressed her
palm into Bishop’s chest, preventing the bull from charging. “Bishop… chill.” She then took a few steps, positioning herself between the two men. “We didn’t steal these fishing poles, Dean. Honestly, we found them down by the lake. My husband picked them up so they wouldn’t be lost.”

Her action seemed to defuse the situation, that and the gathering crowd of onl
ookers. Dean glanced from Terri to the baby and back to Bishop. “The pastor would like to see you up at the office. Now.” And then he pivoted, storming off without glancing to see if Bishop and Terri followed.

Bishop handed the fishing poles to a nearby man and then made it clear to Terri he wanted to give Dean a head start. After their escort was out of ear shot, Bishop whispered, “What the hell was that all about, Terri? I didn’t provoke him at all.”

“I don’t know, but I agree…. His reaction did seem a little over the top. Maybe we’ll find out more when we talk to the preacher.”

Given all the little oddities that he could not explain, Bishop’s radar was now set on high alert.
As they followed Dean, the evidence of the man’s authority became obvious. Bishop noticed none of the residents they passed looked their escort in the eye. People made it a point to move out of his way. Not a single person nodded or offered a greeting. Leaning over to whisper, Bishop observed, “It’s like he’s a cop on patrol. No one wants to be noticed or singled out.”

“I see that. And look at how people are staring at
us. You would think we are being taken to the principal’s office for an unhappy visit.”

“You started it,” teased Bishop, trying to
mimic a teenager in trouble.

“Did not,” Terri played along.

They arrived at the camp’s HQ, Bishop causing Dean additional stress by first checking on their truck and camper before entering the building. Once inside, the family from Texas was shown to the pastor’s office.

They entered a large, executive style
administrative center, complete with a wall of pictures, framed diplomas, and a shelf lined with sports trophies. Behind the highly polished, mahogany desk hung a banner embroidered with the church’s name and logo.

“Please, please, sit down. Thank you for coming so quickly,” greeted Reverend
Pearson, waving his hand to indicate the guest chairs positioned in front of his desk. Bishop wouldn’t sit until Dean had exited, closing the door behind him. Terri and the pastor pretended not to notice.

“So,” the reverend began, “what did you think of our little retreat?
A little paradise on earth, am I right?”

“It’s absolutely gorgeous,” Terri replied. “I had no idea such scenery existed in the southwest.”

“Good… good, I’m glad you appreciate it as much as I do. The Lord does such wonderful work on his canvas that we call earth.”

There wa
s a pause, and then the minister cleared his throat. “As you know, we don’t get visitors from the outside, so this is a new situation for us. There are a few items that I feel we should cover before formally extending our hospitability. The first involves our rules. Here is a list we have all agreed to abide by. We just want to help you fit into our community so that your time here is as pleasant as possible, and we can avoid miscommunications.”

Handing over a sheet of paper, Pearson sat
back while Bishop and Terri reviewed the document. It began with a pledge, contained a lengthy list of regulations, and concluded with a signature line.

The first
item struck Bishop as odd. “No public assembly of more than five people without permission from the administrative staff,” he read aloud. Looking up at the minister, he added, “That seems like an unusual law, sir.”

Dismissing
the concern, Pearson responded with a smile. “When we were first considering relocating from the town, some people were having private meetings where rumor, gossip, and inaccurate information were propagated. Without television, newspaper, or radio, those falsehoods spread without any debate or analysis. It wasn’t helpful to the community as a whole. We wanted to operate under an open, public forum where issues could be discussed in front of everyone. We implemented that rule, and it has worked quite well.”

Bishop didn’t like it, but held his tongue. He recalled his old neighborhood’s meetings when things had first fallen apart. Yes, sometimes things got a little out of control
, and polarity did sometimes evolve into peer-groups of residents forming over certain issues. But that was how the human animal worked. That was a common method of resolution. Banning public assembly seemed harsh. He continued reading.