Free Holding Their Own: The Salt War by Joe Nobody

guarantee your safe passage out of this valley. We will try to repair your truck and return it to you, but I can’t promise that our attempt will be successful - it was significantly damaged.”
    Bishop, nodding his head, acted like he was considering the offer. He stepped closer to the man, taking a knee beside him. Like a diamondback striking prey, his knife was out and against Rocco’s throat.
    “You low-life piece of shit,” Bishop growled, “You almost killed my wife and son. You shot up my pickup for no good reason. Why shouldn’t I shove this blade through your neck and watch you choke on your own blood?”
    Rocco stared into Bishop’s eyes, knowing instantly that this man would indeed kill him without remorse or hesitation. He’d never seen any creature’s stare so cold and uncaring.
    “We didn’t know, Señor. I swear this. We thought you were mercenaries and hired guns driving to join the Salineros. They have been butchering our people for months. That is why we attacked you.”
    “And so now we’re comrades? Now you’re going to promise my safety? I’m having a little problem with trust, my friend.”
    Rocco nodded, the motion causing him to grimace in pain. “My forces won the fight last night. I know this because the Salineros only ride horses, and I’ve not heard any hooves for hours. My men may have already found your wife and son. Perhaps they will catch you looking for them, and more people will perish due to misidentification. I think you need me, Señor. I am convinced we need each other.”
    Bishop pulled the knife away, but didn’t return it to the sheath. He had to admit, the man had a point. “Okay, friend. I’ll help you back to your people. But know this – if you betray me, you will die first. Do we have an understanding?”
    “I know you’re not my enemy. You gave me water and tended to my wounds. If you were truly working for Mr. Culpepper, you would have shot or stabbed me many hours ago. I have no reason to betray you.”
    Bishop helped the man to his feet, the wound in his calf the most limiting factor to mobility. With one arm draped over Bishop’s shoulder, they proceeded out of the mini-canyon and into the valley of boulders.
    Given Rocco’s hobbling pace, their progress was slow. After traveling for only a few minutes, a voice called out in Spanish, “Look! Look! It’s the jefe; he survived!”
    Two men approached at breakneck speed. “Ask them if they’ve spotted my wife and son,” Bishop said.
    Both men indicated they had not found anyone matching the general descriptions of Terri or Hunter. Nor had they found the bodies of a woman or child.
    Bishop listened to the excited exchange between Rocco and his men. After it became clear that they were no longer discussing Terri and Hunter, he turned away to begin his search alone.
    “Where are you going?” Rocco asked, switching to English.
    “I’ve got to find my family,” Bishop replied over his shoulder, continuing to walk away.
    “There will be 50 men from my village here within the hour,” Rocco reported. “They are coming to recover our dead and wounded and to make sure the Salineros don’t retrieve theirs. Stay here with me, and I’ll have my men search for your loved ones.”
    Bishop shook his head, “No, thanks. I don’t want to wait. I need to know my family is okay.”
    “But, Señor, I’m afraid my comrades will shoot you on sight. It could happen.”
    Bishop was about to deny the offer a second time when a whistle sounded. Turning to ascertain the source, the Texan spotted a long column of armed men approaching, the point-man waving to Rocco.
    “And there they are now,” announced the Tejanos commander. 
     

    It was a boy of no more than 13 who darted toward Bishop. He carried a rifle, secured across his back via a timeworn rope, the ancient, bolt-action Lee Enfield almost as tall as the lad.
    The kid didn’t say a word, instead holding an empty water bottle out for Bishop to see. The