Victors smile made it clear he understood. "They use the schools cafeteria as a dining hall. That place is like a fortress though... no way we could get in there."
"Maybe our new friends can help with that. They seem quite capable."
"Cant hurt to ask," the shopkeeper responded.
"In the meantime, would you happen to have any lemon squeezers handy?"
Victor rubbed his chin, thinking about his friends odd request. "No, but Ive got a Tofu press at home. Would that work?"
The physician threw the merchant a questioning glance, "A what?"
"Dont ask," responded Victor, waving off his friends next question. "Ill send one of my helpers home to get it."
"No," came the firm reply. "You go by yourself. I want to keep this just between us in case something goes badly wrong."
Grunting his agreement, Victor responded, "Youre right, of course. We wouldnt want to trouble Stan with having to execute more than just the two of us."
Gospel watched the twisting, serpentine queue of grumbling, dog-tired men trudge through the south gate. Turning to the chief, he said, "This Nick fellow is a demon. He didnt kill anyone, yet the patrols seem to believe we got our a.s.ses kicked."
"The bigger problem is that once retold, the gossip morphs into a tale completely different from the truth. One of my men overheard some rumblings today. He said that the stories are beginning to elevate our fugitive to an urban legend status. They are talking about him in the same terms as Bonnie and Clyde or John Dillinger, giving him the prestige of an outlaw folk hero," replied the lawman.
Gospel understood and didnt like it. "Ill fix that later. For the time being, we have to raise morale. Look at these guys; theyre plodding along with their heads down, shuffling their feet, and hardly saying a word. Im no military commander, but I sure as s.h.i.t can see when an army is beaten and in retreat."
"Its more than just the physical exhaustion and lack of any success. Ive heard some of them complaining that their families arent going to have enough to eat because theyre spending so much time on our manhunt. The reward youre offering doesnt seem real to them anymore. No one thinks theyre going to find the fugitive."
The chiefs words resonated with Stan. He hadnt encountered a problem like this in a long time. It reminded him of those early days, shortly after society had dropped off the proverbial cliff.
Those had been desperate times. The people of Cartersville had appeared much the same as the men marching past him now, shiftless, struggling, and without hope. He remembered thinking there was a vacuum of leadership, that the townspeople were nothing more than lost souls, wandering through life aimlessly. There wasnt any direction, path, or plan. He had stepped in and filled the void.
Now, two years later, Stan firmly believed it was his vision and charisma that had filled the gap. Yes, the supplies available via the influx of truckers had helped, but he was convinced that his own personal magnetism had saved the day. After all, they didnt call him Mr. Gospel for nothing.
An idea consumed his thoughts, a stone that would kill two, troublesome birds.
Turning to his lieutenant, he said, "We need to organize a party... a feast. We can use some of the trailer food, buy more from the market, and throw a real shindig in the square. Lets have music, free meals, and of course, Ill give a speech. It will be a church social on steroids."
The concept surprised the chief, his eyebrow movement indicating he hadnt expected anything like what his boss was suggesting. "Interesting," he ventured. "You might just be on to something there."
"Someone once said that an army marches on its stomach. Well, I believe a town does as well. Well have a celebration, make sure everyone in Cartersville knows society here is stable, and were making progress, despite this little setback from our friend Nick."
"When do you want me to pa.s.s out the party invites?"
"As fast as we can organize it. Tomorrow evening would be best. I want to nip this wave of unrest right in the bud. I want to get things back to where they were before that a.s.shole showed up and started spouting off about his Alliance. Ill announce that we have word hes headed on back from the cesspool he crawled out of... blah, blah, blah."
The chief wanted to remind Stan that hed suggested the exact same thing two days ago, but held his tongue. The man standing next to him had a delicate ego and was unpredictable when challenged. He kept his mouth shut, secretly happy that they were abandoning the ill-advised hunt for the single fugitive.
"Get your best men working on it," the boss ordered. "I want this gala happening as soon as possible. You can access the treasury to buy whatever is available from the market. You have my leave to use whatever you need from the trucks. Make it a banquet to remember."
"Yes, sir. Im on it."
Bishop had an idea.
Standing in the doorway of the small hut Rocco had a.s.signed for quarters, he surveyed the comings and goings of the local villagers.
In reality, his mind was elsewhere, trying to solve the problem. He needed to reunite with Terri and Hunter, and that was going to be extremely difficult with a range war in progress.
While he had little doubt he could infiltrate the Culpepper ranch, Rocco had described the property as a maze of outbuildings, trailer homes, and other structures. "Its like a small town," the local leader had said. "Theres no telling where your wife and son are being held."
"They have scouts and outposts surrounding the ranch," Rocco claimed. "They move them all the time. Believe me, Senor, we have tried to raid the enemy camp several times, and carried back numerous bodies after each attempt."
Bishop snorted, recalling the conversation, his confidence unaffected. There was an enormous difference between detecting a raiding party and identifying a lone, stealthy individual. He was sure he could get in, but then how would he find Terri?
And even if he could locate his wife and son, how would he get them out? While he loved Hunter more than anything on earth, the lad hadnt exactly mastered noise discipline. One single cry, giggle, fart, or belch at the wrong time could spell trouble. If the boy were upset, his healthy lungs would let everyone know about it... everyone for miles.
Bishop had determined that a late night rescue was out of the question. That left only two alternatives end the war, or negotiate with the Culpepper outfit.
Bartering for his wifes release was fraught with peril. He didnt possess much of value, and if the Salineros had any hint of the rank of his wifes position within the Alliance, they might demand a hefty ransom. He wondered for a moment if Mr. Culpepper realized he had the leader of the free world staying at his hacienda.
Even if Bishop could strike a deal, he was sure Rocco and the Tejanos wouldnt appreciate the Alliance strengthening their sworn enemy. Culpepper would likely want food, arms, or ammunition in exchange for his family. While Bishop had little doubt Diana and the council would pay practically any price, the ransom would increase the lethality and longevity of the Salineros effort. Not a good deal for his current hosts.
Bishop finished the mental round trip, ending up right back where hed started. The only way to pull this off gracefully was to end the war. In his mind, that meant providing both sides with what they wanted. Silver, and a steady supply of food.
If all the fighting and killing were really over silver, why not provide the Tejanos with another source of the precious metal to keep their people healthy? That solution would allow the locals to thumb their noses at the dreaded Culpepper overlords and get on with peaceful coexistence.
The Texan knew there were plenty of silver coins throughout the Alliance. He was also well aware that precious metals had held little value in post-collapse civilization. You couldnt eat, shoot, or stab with gold, so what was the use?
As the recovery had begun, the value had risen somewhat, people wanting to barter and trade with the rare metals. Ammunition and pre-issued US greenbacks were still the currency of choice.
As he worked through the concept, Bishop found very few negatives. If the Tejanos had really found a cure for TB, their experience with refining and knowledge of dosage might become priceless if the disease spread through the Alliance. Besides, Rocco had said that colloidal silver was thought to cure many other ailments.
"Thats how I will solve this and get on with my vacation," he whispered. "Ill broker a peace deal with the Salineros and a trade deal with the Alliance. Meraton isnt that far from here, so my new friends could use the market there."
But what would the Salineros get out of the deal? Bishop knew they had manpower, land, and expertise in raising cattle. He could broker an arrangement with Mr. Beltran to restock their herd, and in the meantime work out something with the council so the cowboys could eat until things got going again. Culpepper had salt; maybe the Alliance needed another source.
Bishops thoughts returned to Terri, sure his wife would be proud of his solution. She was typically the diplomat, always his better half that dreamed up the complex, non-violent deals.
"Youre not the only one who can play amba.s.sador," he mused in a soft voice. "Ive got game, too."
"Youve got what?" sounded Roccos voice from the street.
"Game. Ive got game," Bishop responded with a smile. "I was just thinking of my wife."
A huge grin crossed Roccos face, "Ohhh, Senor. I see. You miss your wife, fantasizing about the reunion," he said in a husky voice while grabbing his crotch. "I knew right away you were a macho hombre, my friend. Going to give her a good one, eh?"
Bishop snorted at the mans misinterpretation, but decided to play along. "d.a.m.n right. Shes got some catching up to do."
Rocco leaned in close, his eyes roving up and down the street, his voice low and confidential. "Ive heard that some of the local women are very interested in you. Im sure I could arrange some temporary companionship until your reunion. After the beating you gave Carlos, rumors of your physical capabilities are spreading."
Bishop pretended to be considering his hosts most gracious offer. In reality, he was thinking, "You think I gave Carlos a beating... that wasnt s.h.i.t compared to what Terri would do to me if I strayed."
Finally, the Texan responded, "Thank you for the offer, my friend, but Im not planning on being a burden to you much longer. Ive got a scheme that I think youll find is a win-win for all parties."
Thoughts of pimping for his guest quickly evaporated from Roccos mind. "Go on, Senor, Im intrigued."
"What would you say if I could provide a steady supply of refined silver? You would still have to barter and trade, but it would be on an open market where compet.i.tion would keep the prices reasonable."
"Yes... yes, that would solve one of our problems, but what about the Salineros? I dont see how helping us is going to free your wife and child."
"I will negotiate a separate deal with Culpepper one that would allow him to feed his people without squeezing your village dry. After tempers have died down, if you both want to open up again for trade, then that will be up to you."
Rocco put his finger to his lips, contemplating Bishops words. "Go on," he said, evidently waiting for the rest of the outline.
"I can broker an arrangement that would allow both of you to trade with multiple parties for what you need. The Tejanos could basically ignore Culpepper and his lot, or you could mend fences and become good neighbors again."
"But what about the discrimination, Senor Bishop? You seem to think our struggle is purely about salt, and while that mineral has been the catalyst, our fight is over having to live like second-cla.s.s citizens. For 150 years, the ranchers like Culpepper have treated my people like dogs."
Bishop was shocked by his hosts words. "What? What are you talking about? Culpeppers men and you both told me this war was over salt. n.o.body said anything about discrimination."
"I think youve misunderstood," Rocco replied. "Salt is a simple thing, and we are well aware that there may be other sources. But that isnt the primary fuel that burns the fire of our cause. We want equality... we want to be treated the same as everyone else."
Bishops anger started to build, a burning frustration welling up inside him. "I dont get it. Im sorry, Rocco, but I just cant understand. If Culpepper and his lot treat you like s.h.i.t, then dont go around them. If every Texan on the other side of the Rio Grande is a horrible racist or bigot, then dont do business with them. Do you genuinely hope to change their minds by exchanging bullets?"
The local jefes temper rose a notch as well. "The people of this region have suffered from those holding power on both sides of the border for 100 years. If it wasnt the Mexican government, then it was the cartels. If it wasnt either of those, it was the army or local police. Corruption, mismanagement, and graft have held these people down for generations. And then... poof! It was all gone; the veil of repression was lifted. After the collapse, there wasnt any government, or army, or police force. For the first time in over a century, the people here controlled their own destiny."
Bishop struggled to regulate his voice, well aware of the men nearby who ran the town. "So youre telling me that you are fighting to keep the Salineros from reestablishing that same oppressive dominance?"
"I know it may sound silly to you, Senor. But to us, the Salineros and their demands for salt are a prediction... a glimpse of the future. They know why we need the salt, yet they demand ever more in trade. Why? Its not because they are in need; its because they want to push us down. They want our people to die; they desire nothing more than to keep my village hungry."
Bishop didnt respond, his mind trying desperately to sort it all out.
Rocco continued, "If you can provide any other explanation... give me any other logic regarding why they have acted in such a way, I will listen with an open heart and mind. But I will tell you, Senor, you wont be able to do so. Theres no justification for their actions. They simply dont want us to walk as equal men and are willing to do just about anything to keep us in our place."
"Have you said this to them? What was their response?" the Texan asked.
A frown crossed his hosts face. "Yes, in the early days of the war, I tried to reason with them. This was the response."
Rocco pulled up his shirt and turned around, displaying several rows of raised lash marks across his back. Bishop found it sickening, but his host wasnt done. Turning back to face the Texan, Rocco lifted the cloth even further to show the star-shaped scar of a bullet wound. How it had missed the mans heart was nothing short of a miracle.
"They whipped me for over an hour," he said. "I had approached the Culpepper ranch alone, unarmed, and carrying a white flag. They didnt even try to negotiate or talk. They tied me to the corral gate and used a bullwhip until their arms got tired. Mr. Culpepper himself then shot me in the chest."
Bishop looked down, hating what he was being told. The injustice of it was bad enough, the fact that his wife was now under the control of such men adding to his emotions.
"They sent my horse back into the desert with my body draped on its back. I was lucky, our healers telling me that the bullet could have only missed my heart by a hairs breadth."
"Im sorry this has happened to you, Rocco. I cant explain or justify Culpeppers actions. But I have to ask you this, can there be peace between you, or has this all gone too far?"
Bishop determined the village leader hadnt expected that question. Either that or he didnt have an answer. Rocco partially turned away, almost as if he didnt want any stranger to see his face. He sighed loudly and said, "I dont know the answer to that, Senor. Honestly, I just dont have any idea. I am focused only on killing and winning; I cant think about peace anymore. The concept is beyond me... out of my reach."
And then, without another word, Rocco ambled off, leaving Bishop with an even deeper dilemma.
Terri sat on the main houses back porch, snapping beans. Hunter, utterly fascinated with an old set of tin measuring cups, was playing on a blanket at her feet.
Pausing to study her sons activities, she grunted as his face furrowed in concentration, each tiny hand sporting a utensil. "Youre just like your father," she whispered sweetly. "Fascinated with cup sizes."
The joke was lost on the boy, but it didnt matter. The always-welcome sound of his mothers voice elicited a toothless smile across his baby-fat cheeks.
Terri had rolled up her sleeves and demanded to do her share around the house. Part of that drive was due to an internal value system, always feeling the need to contribute when there were ch.o.r.es to be done. Nervous energy, fueled by constant images of her husband being beaten, tortured, or worse, was also a credit to her work ethic.
Returning to the unsnapped bushel basket of beans, Terri reinitiated her task, thankful the mindless activity allowed her time to think.
Hampered with Hunter, without transportation or communication, she couldnt come up with a solution. With a baby in tow, there was no way she could attempt any sort of cross-desert excursion without a vehicle. Calling for help was also out of the question.
Instinct told her that brokering a peace treaty of some sort was the answer, but the Culpepper crew had been adamant the Tejanos were near savages, untrustworthy and bent on slaughtering anyone a.s.sociated with the ranch.
The fact that she didnt buy into that argument 100% wasnt an overly important factor at the moment. Mr. Culpepper and his management team did, and they were the ones who would have to agree to any sort of arrangement.
Reflecting on the current state of affairs, Terris mind settled on a curious introspective, a realization the councils directives had indeed been sage. A single line of communication could have solved this regional problem... one radio or phone line or messenger could have prevented a lot of needless butchery, agony, and grief.
The Salineros, as they liked to call themselves, wouldnt have depended so much on the villagers if they knew about the markets and recovery available in Alpha and Meraton.
Mr. Culpepper would have been able to work with other ranchers in the area, perhaps salvaging his herd without all this drama. Less than 100 miles away were solutions to all the problems, a.s.sets and services available that might have kept things from spiraling into a shooting war. Yet, neither combatant had been aware. Communications, she thought, another vote for the fourth directive.
Her a.n.a.lysis was interrupted by the kitchens squeaky screen door. Terri glanced up to see Mr. Culpepper coming to join her.
The elderly rancher rarely made eye contact, something that at first, had bothered Terri. After a few days, shed come to understand that her host was always checking his land, scanning the horizon for trouble or opportunity. The habit wasnt due to any shifty avoidance or dishonestly, but based on the need to know what was happening around him. It was probably how hed survived all these years.
"How did it all get started?" Terri asked after the two had exchanged greetings.
"What? The war?"
"Yes. Tell me more of the early history, if you dont mind."
Mr. Culpepper hesitated, unsure of where to start. "I guess it all got started years and years ago. If you want to really understand the root of the problem, you have to go back to when white settlers moved to this part of Texas."
"Oh?"
"Yes, Id say that is a good place to start dissecting this whole mess. Theres always been a rub between the two different cultures. European whites came from a background of individual property ownership, fence lines, and borders. Our Mexican and Indian friends, on the other hand, held more to a sharing of community a.s.sets, tribal usage of the land, a more nomadic utilization of natural resources. This fundamental difference has probably fueled the vast majority of the clashes between the two sides."
Terri nodded her understanding, "Ive read where the concept of land ownership was completely foreign to the native peoples, that they didnt even have words to describe it in their languages."
Culpepper continued, "But it wasnt just land. My daddy fought rustlers for years. On the few occasions when he did catch someone stealing cattle, more often than not they were from the other side of the Rio Grande. Not always, but mostly. They werent professional thieves, just deprived people who saw a cow wandering the desert and decided it would feed their family for weeks."
Pausing for a moment to scoot his chair over and grab a handful of beans, the old rancher then continued. "On most occasions, I ignored it after taking over for my dad. While there were years when a few less losses would have made a big difference to our operation and profitability, I also knew those folks over there were dirt poor. If they culled out some meat once or twice a year, it wasnt the end of the world for us. I didnt like it, sometimes calling the sheriff, other times walking over myself and warning them to leave my livestock alone. It didnt do much good, and jurisdictional boundaries prevented law enforcement from eradicating the problem."
Hunter chose that moment to fuss, one of his toys slightly out of reach. He was soon content, thanks to his mothers longer limb.
After kissing her sons forehead, Terri said, "So this war yall are fighting has deep roots. Most do, I suppose."
Culpepper frowned, "Yes, yes I suppose it does. But things didnt seem to get out of control until about four months after the civilized world vanished. Thats when the rustling got really, really serious. Sometimes four or five head per week."