Holding Their Own: The Salt War Read Free Page A

This is bullshit!” he spouted. “We lost Javier over diapers? A tent? Baby food?”
    “I don’t think these people were soldiers,” one of the older men stated, peering into the bed of Bishop’s truck.
    “How were we to know?” someone else asked.
    Rocco didn’t answer, his scrutiny fixed toward the elevated rise where the truck’s occupants had fled. “No matter,” he announced, turning back to his patrol. “Take whatever we can carry. Sometimes in a war, there are innocent casualties.”
    “Tell that to Javier’s mother,” the old man mumbled, shaking his head.
    Stepping in, Rocco grabbed the man’s shirt, balling the material in a commanding grip and drawing the complainer close. “I am growing tired of your constant complaining, old man. You bitch and moan, yet I don’t hear you offering any solutions. I would advise you to keep your mouth shut.”
    Fire filled the elderly man’s eyes, but his ancient frame was no threat to the younger, stronger Rocco. “Beat me if you will,” he hissed. “Shoot me and leave me to die in the desert if you must. But I’m not going to change my voice. This fighting is wrong. There has to be another way.”
    “Again, no suggestions,” Rocco declared to the men now circling around the conflict. “We have tried talking until our lungs were exhausted. We made every attempt to trade and barter, and all we received in return were more demands and higher tariffs. Our people are starving. The village council made its decision. The only choice was to take up arms.”
    “They made that decision based on your bullying,” countered the old timer.
    For a moment, the throng of men thought their leader was going to strike the naysayer, but he didn’t. Waving off the remark, Rocco pivoted and demanded, “Pack up what is useful. We’ll bury Javier with honor tonight.”
    The men soon gathered, the body of their fallen friend resting nearby, the corpse a motivation to the sullen, angry members of the patrol. Others hefted the cardboard boxes from the back of Bishop’s truck, inventorying the contents. It was another hour before the rumble of the bus sounded across the quiet, desert landscape.
    The dilapidated, old Chevy finally rattled over the nearest rise, its blue and yellow paint faded and weary. It was the only vehicle in their village that would transport so many, and soon the men were loading boxes and hefting the body of their fallen comrade inside.
    Bishop’s truck was secured with a tow rope; the shot-up hulk would be pulled back to the village on its rims and cannibalized for parts or anything else of value.
    Once inside, the old man shuffled up the aisle and selected a seat beside his leader. Over the bus’s less than quiet muffler, he gently pressed Rocco for resolution. “So if those gringos weren’t coming to fight with the Salineros, who do you think they were?” he asked in a conciliatory tone.
    “There is no way to know,” the leader replied. “The only thing we can be sure of is that they weren’t coming to help us Tejanos, and that’s all that matters.”
    “So many have died in this war, Rocco. So many wives and mothers mourn over something so simple as salt. It is a shame, but I should not have confronted you in front of the men.”
    “We both know this is all about more than just salt. The Salineros lord that mineral over our heads to control us. We need salt to survive, my friend,” Rocco replied calmly, his voice indicating acceptance of the apology. “When everything went to hell, we lost so many. Our food spoiled, and the well water went bad. Only a modest amount of the crystalline mineral would have saved so many. We must have salt for our people to survive. The Salineros know this… they know we can’t live without it, and yet they try to rob us blind for a resource that simply lays on the ground.”
    “But they believe it is their land and their salt. The gringos have always thought that way. They have held close the concept of