Free Holding Their Own: The Salt War by Joe Nobody Page A

Texan recognized it immediately as the one he’d given to Terri. “Where did you find this?” he asked.
    The young fighter pointed and then motioned for Bishop to follow. It was only a short distance away, the site looking completely different in the light of day. Still, the Texan was pretty sure it was the same nook where he’d left his wife and son during the night.
    “We also found this,” offered a nearby man, holding up Bishop’s spare shirt.
    After checking the cloth for blood, Bishop examined the sand in the bottom of the crevice. No crimson there either. The area was far too trampled to detect any footprints.
    “Where would you go?” Bishop whispered, trying to put himself in Terri’s shoes. Which direction would his wife travel to locate a safe haven from the skirmish? Would she have been able to choose her own route in the post-battle quiet? Or had she fled in the heat of the mêlée, choosing the path of least resistance available to her?
    A nearby commotion interrupted his thoughts, two men exchanging words with Rocco, their excited voices and exaggerated hand gestures announcing the exchange was something important.
    Turning to face Bishop, Rocco rambled to him. “Your wife is with the Salineros,” he said without fanfare. “Two of my men were chasing the cowboys when they spotted some unusual activity. They identified your wife, holding the baby, riding off with them just a few hours ago.”
    “Are your men sure?” Bishop asked. “How could they tell in the dark?”
    “Apparently, your son’s strong lungs are what initiated the ceasefire, Señor Bishop. My men tell me they were certain one of the riders was a woman, and the infant with her was crying.”
    “Shit!” Bishop snapped, his frustration coming to the surface. “How far away is the ranch?”
    Rocco stuck out his arm, placing a gentle hand on Bishop’s shoulder. “It is but a few miles, my friend. But even if you could find your way there, the Salineros would shoot you on sight. Even now, we are getting ready to retreat to the safety of our village. My scouts indicate the Culpepper militia is heading this way with almost 100 men.”
    “So?” Bishop offered, “I’ve got no quarrel with them.”
    Shaking his head, Rocco tried to explain. “That won’t matter. Consider the situation from their perspective, Señor. They are no doubt enraged by how badly we Tejanos injured their forces last night. They don’t know you. Even if you are very lucky, and they don’t shoot you on sight, they will ask many difficult questions of you. How will you explain avoiding capture? How will you describe surviving the night? They are not likely to believe you accomplished these feats without our help. In their minds, you are guilty by association.”
    Again, Bishop had to admit the man had a point. It was easy to visualize the gathering army of angry cowhands, howling for revenge over friends lost in last night’s conflict. They wouldn’t be a friendly bunch, which typically resulted in few questions and quick trigger fingers.
    “Come back to the village with me, Señor. There’s nothing you can do for your wife and child at the moment. While I cannot say for sure how the Salineros will treat her, I doubt Mr. Culpepper will view a woman as a credible threat. For now, I can’t see where you have any choice but to return with us. To approach the ranch without a plan would be certain suicide. Where would your little family be then?”
    Bishop stared toward the direction of the ranch, his heart resistant to the cruel reality of Rocco’s words. A swirling storm of thoughts flooded his consciousness, pitting logic against pure emotion. How can I even consider walking away from my soul mate and my son? He replayed the encounter with the two cowboys of the previous evening, some reassurance coming from the fact that he’d been ready to take Terri and Hunter to Culpepper’s ranch at that time. Now, they were there, albeit under completely