The Alpha Chronicles (8 page)

Ten minutes later, Terri finally relaxed and entered a deep slumber, her head just touching Bishop’s shoulder, her hand still clasping his.

West Texas

January 13, 2016

The rising moon provided more than enough light to silhouette the two riders, the outline of their horses and hats clear against the brightening night sky. The cowboys had chosen their perch well, atop a crest that surveyed two valleys, each filled with dark profiles of grazing cattle.

The herd was restless for such a calm evening – a state the two riders attributed to their presence and the impending roundup that would begin at sunrise. “Sure sounds like they’re protesting tonight,” commented one of the hands.

“I don’t know man. There is an edge to their lowing. You don’t think we’ve got a mountain lion around, do ya?”

“Naw, there’s not been a big cat up this way for 15 years. We would have seen tracks or a carcass by now. They’re just pissed
‘cause we’re going to make ’em walk in the morning.”

“Thank heavens our watch is up in another hour, these early morning rounds are killing me.”

The listener grunted, responding, “Oh stop yer whining. Next thing ya know you’ll be wanting an air mattress under your bedroll.”

Behind a short outcropping, some 250 yards away, the outline of the speaker was centered in the cross hairs of a 10-power scope, the optic mounted on a 30-06 bolt-action rifle. The man holding the long gun pulled his eye away and whispered to his partner. “I could knock those two off their horses from here – no sweat. Do you want me to take ’em out?”

“And what would you do with the nine others in the camp just over the ridge?”

“We could handle them too.”

“Maybe… maybe not. Come on, let’s head back to the trucks and see how the other guys are doing.”

The man with the rifle was disappointed, the moonlight illuminating just enough of his face to show a scowl. The two men carefully worked their way down the slope, gingerly stepping around the chance lemon cactus and clusters of protruding, thorny ladyfinger.

“What’s the prognosis?” the man without a rifle asked as they approached.

An older man’s head appeared from under the raised hood of an old pickup, his face looking pale and ghost-like in the beam of a flashlight. “It’s fucked. The engine is completely locked up and
won’t even turn over. No way it’s hauling any beef tonight.”

“Shit!”

The outburst startled the three steers in the bed of the vehicle. Hooves thumped on the truck’s metal bed, the pressure of the weight of the livestock causing the cattle rails to groan.

“All right, all right. Let’s get those three off the back of that truck so we can tow the damn thing out of here. Hurry, before those cowboys wander out this way, and we end up in a shootout. One of you go back and keep an eye on those riders.”

Up on the ridge, one of the rider’s heads tilted toward the north. “Did you hear something?”

“No, but I heard an owl just a couple of minutes ago.”

“Naw, that wasn’t it. I heard something like metal grinding on metal. Came from over that way.”

“Are you sure?”

Pulling a pistol from his holster, the reaction made it clear to his partner that he was indeed sure. “You think we should go back and get the others?”

The question was a difficult one. Rustlers had been in the area, stealing several head a few weeks ago. If the two men retrieved their co-workers for nothing, the ribbing would be relentless. If they found armed poachers were the source of the noise, they might wish for reinforcements.

“I’m going to go check it out. You go back and get Mack and the boys. I’ll be working my way up that narrow canyon, so don’t shoot me by accident.”

Carefully guiding his steed down the rocky slope, the cowboy finally reached the flat, hard-packed bottom. The creak of saddle leather broke the silence of th
e desert as he dismounted, quickly reaching down to remove his spurs and avoid the jingle bob of the rowels.

The moonlight cast odd shadows across the valley floor, dark pools of light combining with the black shapes of outcroppings to limit a man’s field of vision while at the same time providing countless places to hide or spring a bushwhack. The ranch hand moved cautiously, pistol drawn and head pivoting right and left. The Glock .45 caliber felt good in his hand, the plastic, high capacity weapon his preferred sidearm – long ago replacing the less accurate, less capable six-shooter. He led the horse, the beast of burden
, a potential necessity for a quick getaway or to give chase. As a last resort, a man
could
take cover behind his horse, but that was
only
as a last resort.

Three hundred yards further down the valley and obscured by a bend, the leader finished tying off the towrope, the thick cord of hemp now a lifeline for the disabled truck. After double-checking the knot, he peered toward the back in time to witness the last steer being motivated to back off the ramp and out of the bed.

Rapid footfalls caused his head to snap up, the man assigned to keep an eye on the cowboys rushing closer. “One of them is coming this way… I think they’ve heard us.”

“How far away?”

“Three hundred yards, give or take. He dismounted, and then I lost him.”

White teeth flashed in the moonlight, the smile gleaming wicked phosphorescent in the lunar radiance. Turning to the cab of the truck, he extracted a large satchel and began rummaging inside. Producing a bundle of tubes and a large spool of wire, he looked up and declared, “I’m going to buy us some time. Make sure these lazy shits have everything ready to go when I get back.” Before the man could acknowledge, the boss was gone, swallowed up by the darkness.

The bundle of TNT was hustled 50 yards up the draw where a steep face of rock towered over the bottom landscape below. Some thousands of years ago a chunk of the cliff had buckled, the geographic event leaving several slabs and larger boulders that narrowed the passage. There wasn’t time to scientifically place the packet of explosives, so he deposited them near the bottom of the vertical wall.

A long screwdriver was shoved in the spool after the wires were judiciously connected to the bundle. Playing out the thin electrical cable, the boss stepped backwards toward the waiting trucks.

The tailgate of the broken down jalopy was still open. The head honcho hopped up on the shelf of metal and then commanded, “Let’s go now… real slow. I’ll signal when I want you to stop.”

With his feet dangling over the edge, the tow vehicle engaged, the initial jerk of the rope almost dumping the passenger off the gate. The slight convoy of trucks began to shuffle across the valley, wire spinning off the ever-dwindling spool.

The pursuing ranch hand proceeded cautiously until he recognized engine noise. The drone was coming from around the next bend, or so he thought. He knew that the vertical rock walls could distort distance and sound. He was trying to choose between mounting up and chasing or waiting until help arrived.

The decision was made for him, the thundering of hoofs made by several riders removing any option and providing enormous relief for the lone rider. He mounted up and waved his hat, a signal that he hoped would be recognized as friendly.

The truck-boss whistled for the procession to stop and without waiting, jumped off the tailgate. Trailing the almost empty spool, he again dug in the satchel and produced a 6-volt battery that might be used on a motorcycle or outboard motor. He switched on his flashlight. Holding the torch in his mouth, he hooked the ground wire first. Looking back, he moved the hot cable toward the positive connection.

Mack and the rest of the men charged up, stopping beside their man. “I heard engine noises around that bend – I think they’re pulling out,” he reported.

“Let’s go,” the foreman commanded.

Spurs raked horseflesh, and the animals charged into the night. The group had ridden less than 30 yards when the cliff in front of them exploded in a blinding flash of white followed by a clap of thunder that would have embarrassed any storm. The horses reacted first, pulling up so quickly that their riders were almost thrown over their mount’s heads. Others spun wildly to flee the detonation.

A rainstorm of rocks and dust was next. Two of the men were struck by softball-sized rocks dropping out of the sky, resulting in a broken arm and soon-to-be throbbing and bruised shoulder.

After retreating a few hu
ndred feet, Mack immediately conducted a headcount, relieved to find all of his party intact, although badly shaken.

“Should we go back after them?” a hand questioned, his tone making it clear he wasn’t in support of the idea.

“No,” Mack answered. “They’re long gone by now, and I imagine that blast collapsed the wall and blocked the pass. Besides, we’re not in a position to fight high explosives. There might be more where that came from.”

Alpha, Texas

January 13, 2016

A mild north wind produced a rare chill in the air, but the conditions weren’t enough to keep the citizens of Alpha indoors. Almost relishing in the breeze, the residents of the normally blistering, arid climate seemed to enjoy the change in their routine weather and went about their business in rarely worn jackets and light coats.

For three days, Diana had been making the rounds, chatting to every person within earshot about organizing the town and conducting elections. After the first day, she had used the large copy machine in the church’s basement to print off a few hundred single page flyers outlining a plan and her proposals. The documents were distributed quickly, her heart warmed by seeing small groups of people standing around and di
scussing the vote.

In general, the people of Alpha understood both the concept and the need of an organized society. Many shrugged off the idea of elections, making random comments like, “Why don’t you just go ahead and do it Diana?” Others asked probing questions, and a few offered suggestions.

The warmth of the deacon’s mood overwhelmed the colder air, the bounce in her step perkier than anyone could remember since the collapse. Each carrying a stack of poster-sized signs, Diana and four volunteers marched from the church’s grounds toward the city’s center armed with nails, hammers, and the carefully created notices of the election. The purpose in Miss Brown’s stride was obvious to any observer.

Nick intercepted the squad a few blocks away, his curiosity overriding an already overbooked calendar of his own. “So, you’re going to post official notice. How did the signs turn out?”

Holding up an example, Diana beamed with pride. “I’m so excited, Nick. The teenagers’ Bible study group did a really nice job on these. We’re going to open registration at the courthouse tomorrow and hold elections a week from today!”

Nick studied the poster, grinning at Diana’s excitement and a major step forward for the town.

“This is huge, Diana - a really important time for our community. I’m so proud of you and the others.”

A few hours later, the signs were displayed all over Alpha, and the population’s excitement was stimulating. It wasn’t an expectation of any post-election miracles, but more a feeling of community spirit and participation. Democracy was returning to West Texas, and for many, that was almost as important as electricity.

Meraton, Texas

January 14, 2016

Pete shadowed Betty throughout The Manor’s garden, his role diminished to pack mule for a bag of fertilizer and its accompanying bottle of spray insecticide.

“Multi-tasking, Pete. If you want to talk to me, you’re going to have to do it while I’m tending the grounds,” she had declared. “I’m too busy right now to just sit and gab.”

Watching the hotel’s manager snip errant stems, Pete began, “I wanted to talk to you about the news that Alpha is holding elections. I got the word from the HAM operator, and I think it’s an incredible idea.”

Betty turned and exchanged her clippers for the bag in Pete’s hand. Sprinkling a handful of granules on the soil, she responded, “I heard about it this morning from one of the guests. Word must be spreading pretty fast.”

“I think everyone is excited. I believe we should do the same here in Meraton.”

Betty stopped her activity, turning to face her friend. “Pete, is there something wrong? I thought you were happy being our unofficial mayor?”

“There’s nothing wrong. It’s just that Meraton deserves a real mayor – not the local bartender. As we continue to recover, image is going to be important. I don’t think it looks good for the mayor to be serving moonshine. Besides, if we’re going to continue to grow, we need to have an
official
mayor, not the unofficial kind.”

Betty studied her friend’s face, finally judging he wasn’t being entirely truthful about nothing being wrong. That decided, she returned to her chores. “And who would run this town? You’ve been a key part of why things have run as smoothly as they have.”

“That would be up to the voters. We could divide Meraton like they’re doing in Alpha and elect a council. It’s the right way to do things and will eliminate problems as we continue to expand.”