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the nearby gate.
    There were four guards at the barricade, all of them having heard gunshots just a few moments before, none of them knowing what or who was involved. Before Gospel could gather his courage or wits, Nick passed by the armed sentries and was outside the wall.
    Kevin, Grim, and Cory were scheduled to meet Nick just over a mile outside of town. With only an occasional glance over his shoulder, Nick casually strolled along the road, seemingly confident no one from Cartersville would be stupid enough to chase after him.
    He had completely overestimated Mr. Gospel’s intelligence.
    Ten minutes and half a mile later, the distinct hum of engines sounded from the receding town. Nick stopped his trek, turning to see what possible dumb ass stunt his former hosts might have in mind. He didn’t have to wait long for the ill-conceived plot to be exposed.
    Soon the emissary could identify at least a half dozen pickups, the beds piled full of men brandishing rifles in the air. The vision pissed Nick off.
    Seconds later, he was running through the pine woods bordering the road, moving at a rapid pace while growling profanities at the ignorance that dominated Cartersville, Texas.
     

    The tracks and manure put Bishop on the trail. A shod horse, maybe two, had passed this way not long ago. Soon, he encountered some older tracking signs, a confusion of hoof marks trotting both directions. Somebody was using this route on a consistent basis. Cresting a small rise, he spotted the riders, the picture-perfect scene worthy of a dime store postcard.
    They were 300 yards distant, the blood-red sun casting its matchless pigment on the backdrop of the Guadalupe Mountains from its vantage near the western horizon. Two horsemen perched on their trusty steeds, the outline of their western hats tilted low, their posture indicating they were saddle-weary from a long ride. They were headed toward Bishop.
    Were it not for the time and place, Bishop would have assumed they were two ranch hands, riding fence or looking for strays. As the pair ventured closer, the silhouette of battle rifles carried across the saddle horns completely ruined the earlier, picturesque image.
    The Texan traced their route, the older tracks he’d been following a clear indication of their intended course. A short distance away, he identified the perfect hiding spot, a rock formation that would allow the armed men to pass directly beneath him.
    After a quick, scrambling climb, he was waiting. The gentle hoof falls in the soft, sandy soil confirmed he’d conjectured correctly, watching the armed men pass not more than 15 feet away.
    “Evening,” he said, startling both men.
    The one in front started to turn, his rifle coming up. “I wouldn’t,” Bishop barked, his tone deep and stern. “I got the drop on ya, fair and square. I just want to talk.”
    The rifle returned to rest across the saddle horn, both men craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the man who was behind the voice from up in the rocks.
    What they saw must have seemed odd to the cowboys. Bishop was above them, his load vest bristling with pouches and magazines, thick body armor and kit swelling the Texan’s outline. While the steady muzzle of the M4 rifle communicated the seriousness of their situation, it was the cold, unblinking stare of the stranger’s eyes that sent fear racing through the rider’s veins. 
    “Why did you ambush my wife and me?” Bishop asked. “Why did you shoot up my truck?”
    “We never shot up no truck, mister. Swear it. We thought we heard some gunfire earlier today, but it wasn’t us,” replied the older of the two.
    Something in the man’s voice led Bishop to believe the words, but there wasn’t any way to be sure. “Okay, say I buy that story for a minute. What brings you two fine gentlemen out this way, complete with AR15 rifles and binoculars?”
    “We ride for the Salineros,” replied the younger man, quickly recovering from the shock of Bishop’s