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appearance. “We work for Mr. Culpepper, and you’re on Culpepper land.”
    “Salineros?” Bishop questioned, trying to recall his seldom used, barely passable Spanish. “Salt men?”
    Bishop observed the forearm muscles ripple across the young rider’s arm, his grip on his rifle tightening. “I wouldn’t, son. I’ve got a four-pound trigger on this blaster, and my finger is already at three and a half. You’ll never make it.”
    The senior of the two reached across, putting downward pressure on his partner’s arm. “Don’t,” he whispered. His gaze then directed at Bishop. “Mister, I’ll say it again; we never shot up no truck. The last fighting our outfit did was two days ago. I’m guessing it was the Tejanos that bushwhacked you.”
    “The Tejanos?”
    “That’s what they call themselves. They’re mostly Mexicans from a small village right across the river. They’ve ginned up some of the outlying ranchers and farmers, got them to join their side as well. There’s been trouble in these parts for the last four months… kind of a range war, if you will.”
    Bishop was puzzled. What was there to fight over? The area was remote, with slight population and even less resources. Further south of here, the Rio Grande valley wasn’t tillable like so much of the river’s shoreline. Vertical canyons and sandstone rock formations were landscaping mainstays of the border area, a heaven for climbers and campers, but not of much value for agricultural pursuits. Still, why hadn’t the Alliance been aware of this ongoing conflict?
    “Can you explain why these Tejanos would open fire on an innocent passerby?” Bishop asked.
    The two riders peered at each other, obviously vacillating about how to answer the question. “Look fellas, I’m not having a good day,” Bishop began. “Somebody shot up my new pickup, damned near killed my wife and baby son, and left us to perish out here in God knows where without water or food. Those horses you’re riding look like my ticket out of this shithole, so start talking before I decide to knock both of your asses out of those saddles and canter back home.”
    Sighing, the older man nodded. “Mr. Culpepper has been hiring men to shore up our side. The Tejanos obviously don’t like that much. Could be they thought you were new employees heading to the ranch and decided to waylay ya.”
    “I see,” Bishop responded. “And where might this hacienda be?”
    Again, the two caballeros hesitated to answer, almost as if they were protecting some military secret. Bishop was growing tired of their games. “Do the Tejanos know where the Salineros spread is?”
    “Look, stranger,” the older cowpoke said. “Why don’t we just give you and your family a ride to the ranch? You can talk to Mr. Culpepper and sort all this out. As long as you’re not working for the Tejanos, there’s no ill will on our part.”
    Bishop considered their offer, his first reaction a negative one. He had been chased by hot lead; his pickup had been turned into a hunk of bullet-peppered metal, and he’d been forced to take a life. The thought of strolling into an armed camp, hostile or not, didn’t sound like a winning proposition.
    But, on the other hand, Terri and Hunter wouldn’t last long out here in the desert. Even if his family did manage to hike out, it would be a dicey experience, riddled with agony, fear, and misery. He visualized Terri trekking out of the sandy inferno, massive dehydration headache, blistered lips, and burned skin. I would never have sex again, he rationalized .
    Guilt, spawned by the awareness that his plan had landed his family in the middle of this mess, superceded his pessimistic outlook. “Okay, friend, we can do that. Keep riding south for another 200 yards and then cut over the ridge. We’ll pick up my wife and son there.”

     
    Terri was spooning small portions of what the military called mashed potatoes into Hunter’s eager mouth. “Here comes the