Holding Their Own XI: Hearts and Minds (24 page)

By the time Bishop returned to retrieve his gear, the basin was unoccupied.

He’d heard Katherine Baxter instruct her foreman to take their captive back to the bunkhouse and assumed her victorious cowpokes had retired to that location.

Retreating back into the rocks and out of sight, the Texan inventoried his kit, made a quick meal, and pondered the next move.

Only a few miles away was a man being held prisoner… and most likely either about to face his maker or find himself a pawn in hostage negotiations with the Alliance. A big part of the imposter’s predicament was due to the fact that his captors thought he was Bishop.

The real Bishop was troubled by that detail.

Like most men, he didn’t embrace the thought of leaving enemies in his path’s wake. Sure, the men who are forced to live by the gun aren’t going to navigate their days without impacting others. Bishop, however, carried a clean conscious that his acts had been justified, either for his personal protection or for the greater good of society.

Taking human life isn’t a natural act, and virtually every aspect of the Texan’s existence was affected by his past. He’d left more than his share of widows and orphans… had been forced to pull the trigger far too many times for any one man.

Yet, in every single case he’d eventually resolved his damaged, nagging soul. It had been his life or theirs. His choice had been to let innocents die… or put down the man in his sights. Terri, Pete, Diana, Nick, or people he didn’t even know would have died… or been subjected to some variation of hell on earth.

The Texan’s mind drifted back to the bugout from Houston and the bridge over the Brazos River. He’d killed some of the men holding that bridge, and he had no regrets. They were the few preying on the many, evil souls who had lost their humanity. Wolves, really, nothing but guiltless predators harvesting the game animals around them. Should he feel remorse over eliminating such beasts?

He remembered Sarah Beth, the college girl he stumbled across in Alpha, living off of dove eggs and whatever she could scavenge. The Goulish had tried to gang rape her. After satisfying their needs, she was to be sold as a sex slave to convicts who ran the town. The Texan had ended their lives and felt no remorse over the bloodletting.

Bishop shook his head, squelching the parade of memories. He’d already watched each episode a dozen times, already replayed the events where blood had stained his hands. It wouldn’t do any good to repeat the process again.

Still, the revelation that his fellow citizens hated his name and reputation bothered the Texan. Why did they think he was some sort of monster? What was driving their anger to the point of violence? As far as he knew, his path hadn’t crossed any of those involved.

For a moment, the Texan thought he knew the answer. Fear. It was the only piece that made the puzzle whole. The ranchers were frightened of the man they knew as Bishop. 

That, however, didn’t make a lot of sense.

The Texan knew the type of people he was dealing with, well aware that it really wasn’t one man or one gun that terrified people like Katherine or Abe. They were hearty souls who had survived the collapse and all of the hardship that comes with earning a living in West Texas. These weren’t meek individuals who shivered or ran when faced with adversity, whether it came from the barrel of a weapon, disease ravaging their herds, or an aggressive neighbor trying to dominate a limited water supply.

No, it had to be the Alliance that generated the rancher’s reaction. Somehow, these people believed the new government in Alpha was out to do them wrong, and that was more troubling to the Texan than any personal accusations or notoriety surrounding his name.

For a moment, Bishop considered just walking away.

He’d accepted the job to help the sheriff while his SAINT team was on the mend and unable to fulfill its regular duties. Now, he was down another man until Grim recovered. Their primary objective, to keep the two ranches from starting a countywide range war, was no longer a viable concern. There had been a loss of life, but that hadn’t been Bishop’s doing.

“I should just go hop in the pickup and head for Alpha and Terri,” Bishop whispered to the surrounding rock. “My part in this is over. I should let Diana and the Alliance brain-trust handle this situation from here on out.”

The captive at the Baxter ranch had tried to assassinate Bishop and his team. There’d been no warning, parlay, white flag, or discussion. They’d introduced themselves with a sneak attack, offering only a high-velocity greeting, and had made it clear that killing the basin’s occupants was their goal. The Texan thought Katherine’s prisoner deserved what he got while in the fuming landowner’s custody.

Yet, some instinct in Bishop’s core wouldn’t allow him to bail and return home.

There was little doubt in the Texan’s mind that Kathy’s prisoner was a professional soldier… or at least had been at one point in time. Their assault had been impressive from a purely objective point of view. It was extremely unlikely the U.S. government had sent in active duty military to take one small valley in the heart of Alliance territory. That left Bishop with only one logical conclusion – hired guns.

Who would do such a thing and why? The seemingly endless, rolling parade of questions bombarded him, frustrating Bishop’s already overworked brain.

One thing was certain – he wasn’t going to get any answers by packing up his toys and going home. He needed to “interview” Katherine Baxter’s captive. That man was at the center of the dilemma, and any help from Alpha might arrive too late to save his life.

Even if Nick and 100 men showed up at the Baxter spread this afternoon, the irate ranchers might execute the prisoner rather than turn him over. More people would surely die if the slightest little thing went awry during the confrontation. The body count could be significant, and that would likely result in even more upheaval and violence throughout the region.

No, Bishop needed to act and do so quickly - before the entire affair spiraled out of control.

The light of dusk was fading as Bishop approached the sentry’s position. The Texan had spent three late afternoon hours probing and scouting the spread’s security perimeter, keeping stealthy and taking his time.

The configuration of guards surrounding the Baxter property wasn’t the best Bishop had ever seen but was far from the worst. In fact, he’d had trouble detecting a couple of the cowpoke’s well-hidden spots. The outposts were, however, intended to detect large groups of riders or dismounted assailants, not a single man with thermal imaging and patience.

His plan was simple – infiltrate the big spread, locate the hostage, and interrogate the man vigorously. While Bishop had a hundred questions tumbling around inside his head, he doubted there would be the time to completely debrief the fellow. If he was still alive. If the ranch hands hadn’t beaten the captive silly.

After boiling it all down, Bishop had one critical piece of the mystery he needed to solve. Who had hired the professional riflemen to take the valley? That answer, if he could extract it from the prisoner, would unravel the entire affair.

Squeezing between a slab of lava rock and a small mound, Bishop wiggled his way to the best vantage point not already occupied by Baxter sentries. There was just enough light left to study the main house and the buildings surrounding the farmhouse headquarters.

Below, he could see what would be considered a typical setup for a working West Texas spread. In addition to the oversized barn and primary residence, the tin-roof outline of stables, storage sheds, bunkhouse, and a variety of other outbuildings came into the circle of Bishop’s optic.

While the spread’s layout offered no surprises, the activity below caused the Texan’s eyebrows to seek his hairline.

Bishop had anticipated everything from a gallows being constructed to a sleepy, tranquil scene while the Baxter gang recovered from the battle and licked their wounds. Even a rope hanging from a tree with the hangman’s noose swaying in the breeze was within the realm of possibilities. 

Instead, the scene below reminded the Texan of an evacuation. Men were hustling to load a line of pickup trucks while others rushed here and there packing supplies. There was an urgency to the activity as if some pending natural disaster was about to strike the ranch.

“What the hell?” he whispered, studying the anthill of motion and resolve below.

Despite adding another layer to the deepening mystery, there was some good news. Bishop would be able to penetrate the chaos with little chance of being detected.

Quickly replacing his bush hat with the stolen cowboy model, Bishop took a moment to remove his vest and pack. He had to look like one of the hands… had to fit in.

With a grimace, he stashed his kit as well as his carbine. While the lever-action rifle scavenged from the valley’s firefight was a quality piece, it couldn’t produce the same rate of fire as his favorite blaster. It was a chance he’d just have to take, and if all went well, there wouldn’t be any shooting anyway.

The Texan snaked his way through the rock formations and patches of scrub oak, descending onto the flats where decades ago some ancestor of the Baxter clan had broken ground for a home site.

As he approached the bustling main area, Bishop studied the men in the low light. If he stayed in the shadows and kept his brim low, it would be difficult for anyone to spot a stranger in their midst. He neared a group loading cardboard boxes into the back of a pickup, and soon was toting a load himself.

After depositing his cargo, Bishop moved off, circumventing the barn and main stables, working toward the bunkhouse.

“You there!” someone shouted, Bishop knowing instinctively that the challenge was aimed in his direction.

He didn’t stop, forcing his head to remain forward, a purpose in his step just like those around him.
I belong here
, he kept telling himself.
Act as if you’re just one of the hands
.

It didn’t work.

“Hey! You… with the rifle… hold on a second!” came the commanding voice.

Bishop had no choice. He hesitated, looked around until he made eye contact with a barrel-chested man vectoring in his direction and then touched his chest with a gesture intended to mean, “Who? Me?”

“Yeah you,” the ever-approaching man growled.

Bishop tensed, his eyes scanning for the nearest cover and eventual escape route. His grip on the old Winchester tightened.

Then a sickening bolt of fear shot through Bishop’s stomach. He hadn’t checked to see how many rounds were in the old rifle. He wasn’t even sure if it was even loaded.
Hellfire and damnation,
he thought.
Here lies Bishop, stupid enough to start a fight with an empty gun
.

The big fellow strolled right up, now close enough to make out facial features.
Knock his front teeth out with a butt stroke and run like hell
, Bishop schemed as the local eyed him up and down.

“I don’t know you,” the challenger said in a low tone. “You must be one of Abe’s boys.”

“Yes, sir,” Bishop responded, thankful for the out.

“I thought Abe had agreed all of you would stay over by the corral. What are you doing here?”

“I was looking for the outhouse,” Bishop lied. “I’ve had a touch of Montezuma’s revenge in my gut lately,” he continued, the second part absolutely accurate, as least at the moment.

The local eyed Bishop again, almost as if he was trying to match a face with a name. From across the courtyard, a voice interrupted the big guy’s focus, “Mack? Mack? Anybody seen Mack?”

Turning his head to shout over a shoulder, Mack replied, “Be right there!”

He then returned to Bishop and barked, “I want all you Pomelos people to stay together. We don't need any old grudges causing a fight right now. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you got a case of the shits, go dig a hole in the woods… hear?” Mack added, pointing a finger at Bishop’s stomach.

“Yes, sir.”

“Now get,” came the last order before Mack pivoted and made for the distant summons.

Bishop exhaled deeply, taking a moment to let the tingling leave his limbs. That had been a close one.

Not wanting to risk Mack’s wrath, Bishop ordered his legs to move, walking towards the corral as ordered. Fortunately, the bunkhouse was in the same general direction.

The sound of truck motors echoed through the ranch, one engine after another being started. Soon after, shouted voices and hustling shadows were everywhere.

“Everybody up to the main house,” called out a voice of authority. “Come on now, get moving. Up to the main house.”

Not wanting to stand out and curious as hell, Bishop began following the general flow of ranch hands making for the Baxter residence.

The Texan lingered back on the fringe of the gathering throng of men. He quickly estimated there were at least 60 cowboys present, all in a semi-circle and facing the front porch. Headlights from two pickups illuminated Katherine and two other men standing beside her.

The Baxter matriarch raised her hand to quiet the milling crowd and then began speaking in a strong voice. “As most of you know, our men have been traveling the entire county today, spreading the word of a town meeting tonight in Fort Davidson. It is my intent to tell our neighbors and friends the truth about the Alliance and their land-grabbing scheme to seize private property.”